I gasp, because Isn't that just exactly what I've been doing too: writing poems and scattering them to the winds with the same hope as Gram that someone, someday, somewhere might understand who I am, who my sister was, and what happened to us.

And why do English people sound smarter than the rest of us? Like they should be awarded the Nobel Prize for a simple greeting?

According to all the experts, it's time for me to talk about what I'm going through... I can't. I'd need a new alphabet, one made of falling, of tectonic plates shifting, of the deep devouring dark.

If bad luck knows who you are, become someone else.

Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.

For the first time in our lives, I’m somewhere she can’t find, and I don’t have the map to give her that leads to me.

You have to see the miracles for there to be miracles.