The flaw is the thing we love.

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

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

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.

The truth, or success, of any writer's story lies partly in its specificity and its emotional honesty.

Hope in the beginning feels like such a violation of the loss, and yet without it we couldn't survive.

What they never tell you about grief is that missing someone is the simple part.