At least, the sun had the decency to stay the hell away from us.

It's as if someone vacuumed up the horizon while we were looking the other way.

This is it--what all the hoopla is about, what Wuthering Heights is about--it all boils down to this feeling rushing through me in this moment with Joe as our mouths refuse to part. Who knew all this time I was one kiss away from being Cathy and Juliet and Elizabeth Bennet and Lady Chatterley!?

When I'm with him, there is someone with me in my house of grief, someone who knows its architecture as I do, who can walk with me, from room to sorrowful room, making the whole rambling structure of wind and emptiness not quite as scary, as lonely as it was before.

It's such a colossal effort not to be haunted by what's lost, but to be enchanted by what was.

This is what I want: I want to grab my brother’s hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders.

I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.