Honestly, I'm just trying to live day to day

It's one of the secrets of strength: We're so much more likely to find it in the service of others than in service to ourselves.

I have no idea how he knows when I need him. We can go weeks without speaking, and then, when my blue moods threaten to turn black, he will show up and tell me my moods are azure indigo cerulean cobalt periwinkle and suddenly the blue will not seem so dark, more like the color of a noon-bright sky. He brings the sun.

The tenderness between two people can turn the air tender, the room tender, time itself tender. As I step out of bed and slip on an oversize shirt, everything around me feels like it's the temperature of happiness.

Maybe there is hope in the fragments, that what is lost can always be filled in by someone who knows.

I learn about the highs and lows of living with the same mother for your entire life, about how no one can make you angrier, but how you can't really love anyone more.

I can't pretend to know what love is. It just is.