At night I would lie in bed and watch the show, how bees squeezed through the cracks of my bedroom wall and flew circles around the room, making that propeller sound, a high-pitched zzzzzz that hummed along my skin. I watched their wings shining like bits of chrome in the dark and felt the longing build in my chest. The way those bees flew, not even looking for a flower, just flying for the feel of the wind, split my heart down its seam.

Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can't remember who we are or why we're here.

It is the peculiar nature of the world to go on spinning no matter what sort of heartbreak is happening.

Someone who thinks death is the scariest thing doesn't know a thing about life.

It's something everybody wants-for someone to see the hurt done to them and set it down like it matters.

My children have always existed at the deepest center of me, right there in the heart/hearth, but I struggled with the powerful demands of motherhood, chafing sometimes at the way they pulled me away from my separate life, not knowing how to balance them with my unwieldy need for solitude and creative expression.

The time to assert one's right is when it's denied!