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

I have an impulse to write all over the orange walls- I need an alphabet of endings ripped out of books, of hands pulled off of clocks, of cold stones, of shoes filled with nothing but wind.

Let me just unsubscribe to my own mind already, because I don't get any of it.

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

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

I don't know how the heart withstands it.

This is the secret I kept from you, Bails, from myself too: I think I liked that Mom was gone, that she could be anybody, anywhere, doing anything. I liked that she was our invention, a woman living on the last page of the story with only what we imagined spread out before her. I liked that she was ours, alone.