Tomorrow. The word hangs in the air for a moment, both a promise and a threat. Then it floats away like a paper boat, taken from her by the water licking at her ankles.
Thrity UmrigarI intend to give my eighty-two-year-old dad a copy of God Never Blinks. I will also buy one for a sixteen-year-old friend. This wise, compassionate, and honest book is a blueprint for living a happy, fulfilling life. Its lessons are timeless – and timely.
Thrity UmrigarHer hands were empty now, as empty as her heart, which itself was a coconut shell with its meat scooped out.
Thrity UmrigarYou felt a deep sorrow, the kind of melancholy you feel when you're in a beautiful place and the sun is going down
Thrity UmrigarThis is love-not what we say to each other but what we not say. Sometime it just one look exchange. Sometime one word. But underlining everything we say or not say, something else. Something heavy and deep, like when we in bed and looking into each other's eyes. For six years, everything between husband and me was on top, like skin. Now it hidden, like bone and muscle. [] He care for me now. He finally see me. And he like what he see.
Thrity Umrigar