Before we sit down, he puts his mouth next to my ear and says, “I like your hair that way.

That is how it feels. Like everything between us is twisted together, friendship and love and family, so I cant tell the difference between any of them.

Someone shouts, "Enough!" and I think too much and nothing at all.

Noise and activity are the refuges of the bereaved and the guilty.

It is impossible to erase my choices.

I feel a thread tugging me again, but this time I know that it isn’t some sinister force dragging me toward death. This time I know it’s my mother's hand, drawing me into her arms. And I go gladly into her embrace.

Oh for god's sake. I'll just carry you.