The sky the sky- same as it always was.

... a gaggle of old ladies is glued to the window at the end of the hall like children or jailbirds. They're spidery and frail, their hair as fine as mist. Most of them are a good decade younger than me, and this astounds me. Even as your body betrays you, your mind denies it.--There are five of them now, white headed old things huddled together and pointing crooked fingers at the glass.

I stare at her for a long moment. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.

Sometimes when you get older — and I’m not talking about you, I’m talking generally, because everyone ages differently — things you think on and wish on start to seem real. And then you believe them, and before you know it they’re part of your history, and if someone challenges you on them and says they’re not true — why, then you get offended because you can’t remember the first part. All you know is that you’ve been called a liar.

Being the survivor stinks.

It's just a crazy damned life, that's all.

With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.