That she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.
AIMEE BENDERThat she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.
AIMEE BENDERShe is the first gesture that creates a quiet that is full enough to make the baby sleep. My genes, my love, are rubber bands and rope; make yourself a structure you can live inside. Amen.
AIMEE BENDERGlen Hirshberg’s stories are haunting, absolutely, but not only because of the content.
AIMEE BENDERIt is all about numbers. It is all about sequence. It’s the mathematical logic of being alive.
AIMEE BENDERand I get refill number three or four and the wine is making my bones loose and it’s giving my hair a red sheen and my breasts are blooming and my eyes feel sultry and wise and the dress is water.
AIMEE BENDERI am not happy, help me — like a message in a bottle sent in each meal to the eater, and I got it. I got the message.
AIMEE BENDERI 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.
AIMEE BENDERWe’re all getting too smart. Our brains are just getting bigger and bigger, and the world dries up and dies when there’s too much thought and not enough heart.
AIMEE BENDERThe most so far, because she found the saddest thing of all to be the simple truth of her capacity to move on.
AIMEE BENDERMom flipped through the magazines like the pages needed to be slapped.
AIMEE BENDERMom loved my brother more. Not that she didn’t love me – I felt the wash of her love every day.
AIMEE BENDERThere’s a gift in your lap and it’s beautifully wrapped and it’s not your birthday.
AIMEE BENDERIt was a fleeting statement, one I didn’t think she’d hold on to; after all, she had birthed us alone, diapered and fed us, helped us with homework, kissed and hugged us, poured her love into us.
AIMEE BENDERAs a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake.
AIMEE BENDERTo see someone you love, in a bad setting, is one of the great barometers of gratitude.
AIMEE BENDERThe stories themselves haunt, they stick around, they linger, inhabiting a little corner of the reader’s brain and resurfacing to evoke mystery or sadness or longing.
AIMEE BENDER