Even the most beautiful things can be toxic.

She thought of death like the seam of a hem: each time you lose someone close, it unraveled a little. You could still go along with your life, but you'd be forever tripping over something you previously took for granted.

I wonder if, as you get older, you stop missing people so fiercely. Maybe growing up is just focusing on what you've got, instead of what you don't.

When I'm with you, bells go off in my head like a moving truck that's backing up.

If he says jump, she doesn't even ask "How high?" She goes out and buys a pogo stick.

And sometimes, he was less lucid. He'd run around his cell like a caged animal; he'd rock back and forth; he'd swing from topic to topic as if it was the only way to cross the jungle of his thoughts.

Being a parent wasn't just about bearing a child. It was about bearing witness to its life.