There is no formula to relationships. They have to be negotiated in loving ways, with room for both parties, what they want and what they need, what they can do and what their life is like.

It is no coincidence that the words 'trying' and 'dying' are only a few letters apart.

My mother was French Protestant, and my father was Italian Catholic, and their union was an excess of God, guilt and sauce.

Accept the past as past, without denying it or discarding it.

Lost love is still love. It takes a different form, that's all. You can't see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it.

We all yearn for what we have lost. But sometimes, we forget what we have.

Once heaven is done with grandma, we'd like her back, thanks.