You count the hours you could have spent with your mother. It's a lifetime in itself.

How do people choose their final words? Do they realize their gravity? Are they fated to be wise?

You'll come to my grave? To tell me your problems?" My problems? "Yes.' And you'll give me answers? "I'll give you what I can. Don't I always?" I picture his grave, on the hill, overlooking the pond, some little nine foot piece of earth where they will place him, cover him with dirt, put a stone on top. Maybe in a few weeks? Maybe in a few days? I see myself sitting there alone, arms across my knees, staring into space. It won't be the same, I say, not being able to hear you talk. "Ah, talk . . . " He closes his eyes and smiles. "Tell you what. After I'm dead, you talk. And I'll listen.

It is far more comforting to think God listened and said no, than to think that nobody’s out there.

I don't know what it is about food your mother makes for you, especially when it's something that anyone can make - pancakes, meat loaf, tuna salad - but it carries a certain taste of memory.

And I suppose tapes are a desperate attempt to steal something from Death's suitcase.

It was sad, the imbalance of it all. Why do kids assume so much from one parent and hold the other to a lower, looser standard?