One of those out-of-the-ordinary days that made sense of the slew of ordinary days. New York had a way of doing that. Every now and then the city shook its soul out. It assailed you with an image, or a day, or a crime, or a terror, or a beauty so difficult to wrap your mind around that you had to shake your head in disbelief.

That's what sons do: write to their mothers about recall, tell themselves about the past until they come to realize that they are the past.

He said to me once that most of the time people use the word love as just another way to show off they're hungry. The way he said it went something like: Glorify their appetites.

Ultimately, you can only ever write what you know. It's logically and philosophically impossible to write what you don't know.

We shape ourselves by our imaginative reach.

I grew up sort of middle class, safe and suburban.

We stumble on, thinks Jaslyn, bring a little noise into the silence, find in others the ongoing of ourselves. It is almost enough.