He almost told her everything right then, that very moment. But you grab a moment, or you let it pass. He let it pass.

For years I wrote in my basement. More recently I graduated to one floor above, an office with all my books and music and - ta da! - a window.

He almost told her everything right then, that very moment. But you grab a moment, or you let it pass. He let it pass.

Had he known his death was imminent, he might have gone somewhere else. Instead, he did what we all do. He went about his dull routine as if all the days in the world were still to come. ~pg 4

Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them. They move on. They move away.

Mothers support certain illusions about their children, and one of my illusions was that I liked who I was, because she did. When she passed away, so did that idea.

All endings are also beginnings. We just don't know it at the time.