From my earliest memory, times of crisis seemed to end up with women in the kitchen preparing food for men.

The friend who holds your hand and says the wrong thing is made of dearer stuff than the one who stays away.

It's the same struggle for each of us, and the same path out: the utterly simple, infinitely wise, ultimately defiant act of loving one thing and then another, loving our way back to life.

it's the thing you fear most that walks beside you all the time.

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

I prefer to remain anomalous.

The gods you do not pay are the ones that can curse you best.