It never failed to amaze me how the most ordinary day could be catapulted into the extraordinary in the blink of an eye.

Why are you doing this to yourself? When something bad happens, why do you have to pick at it until it bleeds all over again?

I would figure out, later, how to explain to my boss that, for me, Delia will never be a story, but a happy ending.

Fiction is like that, once it is released into the world: contagious, persistent. Like the contents of Pandora's box, a story that's freely given can't be contained anymore. It becomes infectious, spreading from the person who created it to the person who listens, and passes it on.

There are all sorts of losses people suffer - from the small to the large. You can lose your keys, your glasses, your virginity. You can lose your head, you can lose your heart, you can lose your mind. You can relinquish your home to move into assisted living, or have a child move overseas, or see a spouse vanish into dementia. Loss is more than just death, and grief is the gray shape-shifter of emotion.

You would be surprised at the lengths you will go to believe the best about someone if you truly love him

And if your parents have you for a reason, then that reason better exist. Because once it's gone, so are you.