Why is it I'm always so quick to believe that people are thinking...believing the worst about me?

And taking care of somebody else made me feel good. Like discovering you're more than you thought you were. More even than you hoped to be.

I was hooked on writing. I mean, where else can you get paid for sticking your nose into somebody else's business?

And marking off time struck me as something like counting empty spaces—spaces you know can't ever be filled.

It was like that. Sometimes I'd go for a period—days or weeks—without feeling the full sweep of my loss, and then as unexpected as a thunderclap, the realization would rip the protective coating from my senses. Maybe that's the way it is with trick knees and aging griefs. Totally pain free one moment and absorbingly painful the next.

Fun, like champagne bubbles, can't completely fill you up.

I wondered if a blessing is still a blessing if it lasts for only a little while.