The best place to cry is on a mother’s arms.
Some women are meant to change the world, while others are meant to hold it together. And then there are those of us who simply don’t want to be in it, because we know no matter how much we struggle, we can’t comfortably fit.
I wonder if other mothers feel a tug at their insides, watching their children grow up into the people they themselves wanted so badly to be.
If she spoke, she would tell him the truth: she was not okay at all, but horribly empty, now that she knew what it was like to be filled.
Raw love, like raw heartache, could blindside you.
All I know is that I carried you for nine months. I fed you, I clothed you, I paid for your college education. Friending me on Facebook seems like a small thing to ask in return.
It’s never the differences between people that suprise us. It’s the things that, against all odds, we have in common.
History could hover, like a faint perfume or a memory stamped on the back of one’s eyelids.
If you ask me, music is the language of memory.
After all, once you know that part of something exists, it stands to reason that the rest of it is somewhere out there, too.
You’d think someone who’d been to medical school would be able to hear through a stethoscope that somebody was empty inside.
Is it a crime when you love someone so much that you can’t stand the thought of them changing? Is it a crime when you love someone so much that you can’t see clearly?
Life is not a plot; it’s in the details.
Suddenly this is all too hard. I am tired of putting up walls. I want someone with the strength – and the honesty – to break them down.
There are just as many stories to be told in the dark spots s there are in the bright ones.
It’s hard to be the one always waiting. I mean, there’s something to be said for the hero who charges off to battle, but when you get right down to it there’s a whole story in who’s left behind.
Doctors put a wall up between themselves and their patients; nurses broke it down.
No, honestly, my mouth shouldn’t be able to function unless my brain’s engaged.
Being a parent wasn’t just about bearing a child. It was about bearing witness to its life.
It never failed to amaze me how the most ordinary day could be catapulted into the extraordinary in the blink of an eye.