I made her promise to write, but artists are artists, not writers. She did send postcards, though: a lot of postcards – sometimes.
Just as there is no warning for childbirth, there is no preparation for the sight of a first child.
He lay across the valley like a sparkling path, the setting sun catching fire on the way.
Reverend Hartshorn’s face had puckered into a scowl. “This, er, passionate experience of the divine to which you lay claim is not necessarily evidence of salvation,” he said, choosing his words carefully. According to his theology, election was an absolute mystery; however, the notion that this foul-smelling lout could lay claim to revelation seemed monstrous. “The.
After the birth of a boy, mothers rested from one moon to the next, but the birth of a birth-giver required a longer period of separation from the world of men.
He had lain with his wives and concubines in the fields, as an old midwife suggested, and all he had gotten for that effort was an itchy backside and bruises on his knees.
That time, I knew she was asking for an opinion. “My mother thinks I am.” She said mothers were right to be concerned for their.
And then what do I do?” Joyce asked, her voice suddenly pinched.
The boardwalk was mobbed like downtown at Christmas, only with the roller coaster roaring overhead. The beach was even worse. It was like an obstacle course of blankets and people. It was hard for him to walk on sand and the cane didn’t help at all.
I Have No Choice, Addie.
I need a bathroom. And there are way too many people around here for us to.
He’d been back to Mrs. Stanley’s house only three times in the years since Stanwood had chased him out.
I died but I did not leave them.
Remember when I used to chase you and your sister around the house to get my daily minimum requirement of hugs? I said if I didn’t get one hundred hugs I would float up into the sky like Mary Poppins and you would never see me again. We stopped playing that game when you started school, but we never stopped hugging.
Adah held the baby whenever Leah would put him down, and the joy of him lifted years from her face and the pain from her bones. But the illness that had wasted her strength could not be cured by even the greatest joy. And one morning she did not rise from her blanket.
I never cared for red headed men. I think they look like shrimp boiled to peel.
Could she be a friend to the writer of a bad book?
If you want to understand any woman you must first ask about her mother and then listen carefully. Stories about food show a strong connection. Wistful silences demonstrate unfinished business. The more a daughter knows the details of her mother’s life – without flinching.
The painful things – Werenro’s story, Re-nefer’s choice, even my own loneliness – seemed like the knots on a beautiful necklace, necessary for keeping the beads in place.
The flavor of gratitude is like the nectar of the hive.