Percy climbed the first step, then the next, remembering the thousands of times she'd run through the door, in a hurry to get to the future, to whatever was coming next, to this moment.

She was the breeze on a summer's day, the first drops of rain when the earth was parched, light from the evening star.

The stretch of years leaves none unmarked: the blissful sense of youthful invincibility peels away and responsibility brings its weight to bear.

Curiosity might have killed the cat, but little girls usually fared much better.

Life could be cruel enough these days without the truth making it worse.

Had any poet adequately described the wretched ugliness of a loved one turned inside out with grief?

She was the sort of person for whom fear was the natural response to that beyond explanation.