I think maybe I know why,' she finally said. 'Why?' 'Maybe all the strings inside him broke,' she said.
I pointed at the little kids goading each other to jump from rib cage to shoulder and Gus answered just loud enough for me to hear over the din, 'Last time, I imagined myself as the kid. This time, the skeleton.
Our children are weird. Nicely phrased.
Caring doesn't sometimes lead to misery. It always does.
Every paper girl needs at least one string.
That was the worst part about having cancer, sometimes: The physical evidence of disease separates you from other people.