If you want to know someone’s story, they have to tell it aloud. But every time, the telling is a little but different. It’s new, even to me.
When you’re a parent you find yourself looking at the unknown that is your child, trying to find a piece of yourself inside her, because sometimes that is what it takes to claim.
Sometimes knowing what’s right isn’t a rational decision, or even what works on paper. Sometimes leaving is the best course of action after all.
That’s the crazy thing about lies. You start to fall for them, yourself.
You can’t hate someone until you know what it might be like to love them.
I would tell them that when you look at a person, you never know what the’re hiding.
Asking me to describe my son is like asking me to hold the ocean in a paper cup.
The first time she kissed me, I truly thought I’d had an aneurysm – my pulse was thundering so loud and my senses were exploding. This, I remember thinking, the only word I could hold on to in a sea of feelings.
My whole life was about her, what if her whole life wasn’t all about me?
Jacob’s room is the place entropy goes to die.
But then again, maybe bad things happen because it’s the only way we can keep remembering what good is supposed to look like.
Isn’t it amazing how, when you strip away everything, people are so much alike?
Maybe if you spend your life pretending you’re on a movie set, you don’t ever have to admit that the walls are made out of paper and the food is plastic and the words in your mouth aren’t really yours.
Dark matter has a gravitation effect on other objects. You can’t see it, you can’t feel it, but you can watch something being pulled in its direction.
Knowledge was power, but a good librarian did not hoard the gift. She taught others how to find, where to look, how to see.
Listen, I would say, this is not how I thought our lives would go; and may be we cannot find our way out of this alley. But there is no one I’d rather be lost with.
I used to think I’d be just like them when I grew up, but I am not. And the thing is, somewhere along the way, I stopped wanting to be like them, anyway.
I have never understood why it is called losing a child. No parent is that careless. We all know exactly where our sons and daughters are; we just don’t necessarily want them to be there.
I used to pretend that I was just passing through this family on my way to my real one.
I look for places like me: big, hollow, forgotten by most everyone.