Without a doubt my mother was an inspiration for my writing. This is true in many ways, but mostly because she is a wonderful storyteller, without even knowing it.

He put the blinker on, pulled out onto the avenue. "Well, that was nice," she said, sitting back. They had fun together these days, they really did. It was as if marriage had been a long, complicatd meal, and now there was this lovely dessert.

Traits don't change, states of mind do.

The key to contentment was to never ask why; she had learned that long ago.

Or maybe, he thought, returning to the boxes, it was part of being Catholic--you were made to feel guilty about everything

Back and forth she went each morning by the river, spring arriving once again; foolish, foolish spring, breaking open its tiny buds, and what she couldn’t stand was how—for many years, really—she had been made happy by such a thing. She had not thought she would ever become immune to the beauty of the physical world, but there you were. The river sparkled with the sun that rose, enough that she needed her sunglasses.

He wanted to put his arms around her, but she had a darkness that seemed to stand beside her like an acquaintance that would not go away.