When is a cell finally too small to hold our essence?

It's the unknown that I fear, the bites of memories that still have no connections.

Father says it will come in time. “Time heals,” he says. I don’t tell him that I don’t know what time is.

I decide that sometimes definitions are wrong. Even if they're written in a dictionary. Identities aren't always separate and distinct. Sometimes they ARE wrapped up with others. Sometimes, for a few minutes, maybe they can even be shared. And if I am ever fortunate enough to return to Mr. Bender's garden, I wonder if the birds will see that piece of him that is wrapped up in me.

I thought grandmothers had to like you. It’s a law or something.

Whatever you choose for your stationery is your favorite color because it's where you pour your heart out.

My memory is coming back. It is curious how it comes. Each day, a rush of pieces, loosely connected, unimportant bits, snake through me. They click, click, click into my brain, like links being snapped together. And then they are done. A small chain of memories that fill in one tiny part of my life. They come out of nowhere, and most are not important.