Now all the mute objects of my life seem to tell my story, to stretch back in time, if I look closely enough.

There are some books that reached through the noise of life to grab you by the collar and speak only of the truest things.

Bubble gum angels swooped from top margins or scraped their wings between teeming paragraphs, maidens with golden hair dripped sea blue tears into the books spine, grape-colored whales spouted blood around a newspaper item (pasted in) listing arrivals to the endangered spieces list. Six hatchlings cried from shattered shells near an entry made on Easter. Cecilia had filled the pages with a profusion of colors and curlicues, candyland ladders and striped shamrocks.

In the end we had the pieces of the puzzle, but no matter how we put them together, gaps remained, oddly shaped emptinesses mapped by what surrounded them, like countries we couldn't name.

The Statue of Liberty's gender changed nothing. It was the same here as anywhere: men and their wars.

The perishable nature of love is what gives love its profound importance in our lives. If it were endless, if it were on tap, love wouldn't hit us the way it does.

Capitalism has resulted in material well-being but spiritual bankruptcy.