The other day I found her passport in her drawer when I was putting away my dad's laundered handkerchiefs. I wish I hadn't. For the purpose of my story, she should have it with her. I sat on my dad's bed and flipped through page after empty page. No stamps. No exotic locales. No travel-worn smudges or creases. Just the ID information and my mother's black-and-white photo which if it were used in a psychology textbook on the meaning of facial expressions would be labelled: Obscenely, heartbreakingly hopeful.

It was the first time that we had sort of articulated our major problem. She wanted to die and I wanted her to live and we were enemies who loved each other.

She was becoming sad. There is no joy involved in following others' expectations of yourself

David Bergen is a master of taut, spare prose that's both erotic and hypnotic. . . .

Her faith in a loving and forgiving God is strong, but she worships laughter.

It's raining questions around here. A person could drown in them.

If, along the way, something is gained, then something will also be lost.