A mother is a story with no beginning. That is what defines her.

One of the ideas I've clung to most of my life is that if I just try hard enough it will work out.

My whole life, I had been taught to read and study, to seek understanding in knowledge of history, of cultures.

Suddenly it was fall, the season of death, the anniversary of things-going-to-hell.

Many grievers experience intense yearning or longing after a death - more than they experience, say, denial.

Our minds are mysterious; our conscious brain is like a ship on a sea that is obscure to us.

When my mother was sick, I found myself needing to put down in my journals all sorts of things - to try to understand them, and, I think, to try to remember them.