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

The sky is everywhere, it begins at your feet.

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

There were once two sisters who were not afriad of the dark because the dark was full of the other's voice across the room, because even when the night was thick and starless they walked home together from the river seeing who could last the longest without turning on her flashlight, not afraid because sometimes in the pitch of night they'd lie on their backs in the middle of the path and look up until the stars came back and when they did, they'd reach their arms up to touch them and did.

Grief is forever. It doesn't go away; it becomes part of you, step for step, breath for breath.

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

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.