My mother... she is beautiful, softened at the edges and tempered with a spine of steel. I want to grow old and be like her.
Seeing her sitting there unresponsive makes me realize that silence has a sound.
Then Henry speaks again. "Did he do it?" I turn to him slowly. "Does it matter?
He insisted that stars were people so well loved, they were traced in constellations, to live forever
something is always falling apart in me.
It takes two people to make a lie work: the person who tells it, and the one who believes it.