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Sometimes, she said, mostly to herself, I feel I do not know my children…

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That she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.
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The wine glasses are empty except for that one undrinkable red spot at the bottom.
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I knew if I ate anything of hers again, it would lkely tell me the same message: help me,
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I admired that stride; it was like he folded space in two with it.
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I peeled the skin off a grape in slippery little triangles, and I understood then that I would be undressing every item of food I could because my clothes would be staying on.
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If everything kept to its normal progression, we would live with the sadness-cry and then walk-but what really breaks us cleanest are the losses that happen out of order.
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I was right at the edge of their circle, like the tail of a Q…
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While she cut the mushrooms, she cried more than she had at the grave.
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My eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.
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