Writers would be warm, loyal, and otherwise terrific people-if only they'd stop writing.
A faint smell of lilac filled the air. There was always lilac in this part of town. Where there were grandmothers, there was always lilac.
There is a perfect someone, even if the road to that someone isn’t all that perfect.
Every small town that I had ever been to had had a caboose.
The past is a very determined ghost, haunting every chance it gets.
Maybe everything really does just have an expiration date--one that you can't see until she tells you she's leaving, and then she's gone.