So how long do you think it’ll be?” he says. “Before the next hurricane comes along to take you home.” “Can I tell you my biggest fear?” I say. “Yes. Tell me.” “That it will be a very windless four years.

I used to have only one name; it used to mean something.

There's a sort of dead passion in him. A spark that, had he more years to live, would be a wildfire.

Life is much different from the days when there were lilies in my mother’s garden, and all my secrets fit into a paper cup.

You can't be afraid. You can be sad if you like. You can be angry. But it's the fear that'll freeze you in place.

He looks at me, and I don't know what he sees. I used to think it was Rose. But she's not here with us now, in this room. It's just him and me, and the books. I feel like our lives are in those books. I feel like all the words on the pages are for us.

Do you know what my father used to say?" I ask her. "He used to say that songs had a heart. A crescendo that can make all your blood rush from your head to your toes.