The only thing that makes me crazier than writing is not writing.

After sixty-one years together, she simply clutched my hand and exhaled.

Although there are times I'd give anything to have her back, I'm glad she went first. Losing her was like being cleft down the middle. It was the moment it all ended for me, and I wouldn't have wanted her to go through that.

I have to convince myself that this is not a pointless life, even the body is telling me so.

When I first submerged my feet into frigid water, they hurt so badly I yanked them out again. I persisted, dunking them for longer and longer periods, until the cold finally blistered.

The more distressing the memory, the more persistent it's presence.

I am ninety. Or ninety-three. One or the other.