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.

What is it?” “A prayer.” “For a child?” She nodded. “For me?” Another nod. “On a tree?” “Trees spend all day looking up at God.

Every life has one true love snapshot.

Got an hour or two? That's all it takes for one of my books.

When hope is gone, time is punishment.

sometimes what you miss the most is the way a loved one made you feel about yourself.

Much of what we called "depression" was really dissatisfaction, a result of setting a bar impossibly high or expecting treasures we weren't willing to work for.