We all know how to be a child. It’s inside all of us. For me, it’s just remembering how to enjoy it.
I love you every day, Mom.
Lost love is still love. It takes a different form, that’s all.
All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped.
Status will get you nowhere. Only an open heart will allow you to float equally between everyone.
Now you know how badly someone wanted you, Charley. Children forget that sometimes. They think of themselves as a burden instead of a wish granted.
The news of life is carried via telephone. A baby’s birth, a couple engaged, a tragic car accident on a late night highway – most milestones of the human journey, good or bad, are foreshadowed by the sound of a ringing.
Getting old we can deal with. Being old is the problem.
Because one thing God gave us- and I’m afraid it’s at times a little too much- is freewill. Freedom to choose. I believe he gave us everything needed to build a beautiful world, if we choose wisely.
When a lost loved one appears before you, it’s your brain that fights it, not your heart.
You’re not listening with your eyes.
That kind of love – the kind you realize you already have by the life you’ve created together – that’s the kind that lasts.
Sometimes you have to do things when sad things happen.
This is a story about a family and, as there is a ghost involved, you might cal it a ghost story. But every family is a ghost story. The dead sit at out tables long after they have gone.
Mothers support certain illusions about their children, and one of my illusions was that I liked who I was, because she did. When she passed away, so did that idea.
She was like a wound beneath an old bandage, and he had grown more used to the bandage.
Accept what you are able to do and what you are not able to do.
Life is a series of pulls back and forth. You want to do one thing, but you are bound to do something else.
The more you defend a lie, the angrier you become.
You count the hours you could have spent with your mother. It’s a lifetime in itself.