I grew up in this era where your parents' friends were all called aunt and uncle. And then I had an aunt and an aunt. We saw them on holidays and other times. We never talked about it, but I just understood that they were a couple.

I often imagine what it would be like if my father were still here to mark his 100th birthday, if Alzheimer's hadn't clawed away years, possibilities, hopes. What would he think of all the commemorations and celebrations?

People love the way they're capable of loving-but that's not always how you want them to love or how you think they should love.

The memories stayed with him for so long, and stayed vivid. And it didn't matter to me that he'd already repeated that before. I could hear it forever.

There is a point in the grieving process when you can run away from memories or walk straight toward them.

Loss teaches you to figure things out as they come along.

I think that nothing teaches you more about life than death and dying.