Looking on the bright side of life never killed anybody.

Aching familiar in a way that made me wish I was still eight. Eight was before death or divorce or heartbreak. Eight was just eight. Hot dogs and peanut butter, mosquito bites and splinters, bikes and boogie boards. Tangled hair, sunburned shoulders, Judy Blume, in bed by nine thirty.

I knew it in my bones. That this time was it. I had finally made my choice, and so had he. He let me go. I was relieved, which I expected. What I didn't expect was to feel so much grief.

Everything good, everything magical happens between the months of June and August. Winters are simply a time to count the weeks until the next summer

Maybe that was how it was with all first loves. They own a little piece of your heart, always.

When you walk on the beach at night, you can say things you can't say in real life.

Firsts are best because they are beginnings