Was there a language of loss? Did everyone who suffered speak a different dialect?

Does fate ever play by the rules?

I have never understood why it is called losing a child. No parent is that careless. We all know exactly where our sons and daughters are; we just don't necessarily want them to be there

It is a remarkable question- Do all the wonderful things happen when we are not aware of them?

You can widen the feet of a compass, but they are still attached at the top; you can spin them away from each other, but you always wind up where you started.

I think once you sign on to be a mother, that's the only shift they offer.

[Jules] slides into a seat beside me with her hot lunch tray, sighing. “Four hours, thirty-six minutes, and twelve seconds till we’re out of purgatory for the weekend.” “Maybe later,” I murmur, still distracted by the day’s previous events. “So, let me show you how a conversation works. I say something, and then you say something back that actually relates to what I was talking about, as if you were even the least bit interested.” “Huh?” I say.