I don't bring expectations to any of my books. I don't tell people what to do. I want to invite them in.

I could never work out whether we were to view religion as a life-insurance policy or a life sentence.

Humans can be fairly ridiculous animals.

Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin.

This will be Great Mam's last spring. Her last June apples. Her last fresh roasting ears from the garden.

I don't know what rituals my kids will carry into adulthood, whether they'll grow up attached to homemade pizza on Friday nights, or the scent of peppers roasting over a fire, or what. I do know that flavors work their own ways under the skin, into the heart of longing. Where my kids are concerned I find myself hoping for the simplest things: that if someday they crave orchards where their kids can climb into the branches and steal apples, the world will have trees enough with arms to receive them.

If you ask me, when something extraordinary shows up in your life in the middle of the night, you give it a name and make it the best home you can.