My idea of a productive day, as both a child and an adult, was reading for hours and staring out the window.

That she was irreplaceable became a bittersweet loyalty: Her death was what I had now instead of her.

memory is both the curse of grief and the eventual talisman against it; what at first seems unbearable becomes the succor that can outlast pain.

The belief that life was hard and often its worst battles were fought in private, that it was possible to walk through fear and come out scorched but still breathing.

Like a starfish, the heart endures its amputation.

Grief doesn't necessarily make you noble. Sometimes it just makes you crazy, or primitive with fear.

Maybe this is the point: to embrace the core sadness of life without toppling headlong into it, or assuming it will define your days.