In one split second I saw everything I could be, everything I want to be. And all that I'm not.

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

grief is a house where the chairs have forgotten how to hold us the mirrors how to reflect us the walls how to contain us grief is a house that disappears each time someone knocks at the door or rings the bell a house that blows into the air at the slightest gust that buries itself deep in the ground while everyone is sleeping grief is a house where no on can protect you where the younger sister will grow older than the older one where the doors no longer let you in or out

And then he smiles, and in all the places around the globe where it's night, day breaks.

How could a mother who boils water for pasta leave two little girls behind?

I could step out of this sad life like it's an old sorry dress.

The Color Of Extraordinary.