My brother believed in all sorts of mythical creatures: pixies, dragons, werewolves, honest men.
Whether it was power they sought, or revenge, or love-well, those were all just different forms of hunger. The bigger the hole inside you, the more desperate you became to fill it.
That’s the paradox of loss: How can something that’s gone weigh us down so much?
Loneliness is a mirror, and recognizes itself.
I never said I do not remember, my grandmother corrects. I said I prefer to forget.
The person may have a scar, but it also means they have a story.
Be kind to others before you take care of yourself; make whoever you’re with feel like they matter.
The only monsters I have ever known were men.
We believe what we want to, what we need to. The corollary is that we choose not to see what we’d rather pretend doesn’t exist.
Life was what happened when all the what-ifs didn’t.
I realize how quickly lies compound. They cover like a coat of paint, one on top of the other, until you cannot remember what color you started with.
If words had flavors, hers would be bitter almonds and coffee grounds.
When a freedom is taken away from you, I suppose, you recognize it as a privilege, not a right.
But that’s what love is, isn’t it? When it hurts you more to see someone suffer than it does to take the pain away?
But if you seek forgiveness, doesn’t that automatically mean you cannot be a monster? By definition, doesn’t that desperation make you human again?
There are so many ways a family can unravel. All it takes is a tiny slash of selfishness, a rip of greed, a puncture of bad luck. And yet, woven tightly, family can be the strongest bond imaginable.
If you end your story, it’s a static work of art, a finite circle. But if you don’t, it belongs to anyone’s imagination. It stays alive forever.
It was a catch-22: If you didn’t put the trauma behind you, you couldn’t move on. But if you did put the trauma behind you, you willingly gave up your claim to the person you were before it happened.
If you had to pack your whole life into a suitcase-not just the practical things, like clothing, but the memories of the people you had lost and the girl you had once been-what would you take?
Hunger, she often tells me, has nothing to do with the belly and everything to do with the mind. What Mary really runs isn’t a bakery, but a community.