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From all that I heard, and overheard, fate was a grim reaper, never kind, with little respect for who was loved and needed.
summer. And grief, no matter how you try to cater to its wail, has a way of fading away, and the person so real, so beloved, becomes a dim, slightly out-of-focus shadow.
“there are some mothers you just can’t love, for they don’t want you to love them.”
To believe in God is a good thing, a right thing. But when you reinforce your belief with words you take from the Old Testament that you seek out, and interpret in the ways that suit your needs best, that is hypocrisy,
“Love doesn’t always come when you want it to. Sometimes it just happens, despite your will.”
Never would I become so dependent on a man I couldn’t make my way in the world, no matter what cruel blow life delivered!
At the end of the rainbow waited the pot of gold. But rainbows were made of faint and fragile gossamer—and gold weighed a ton—and since the world began, gold was the reason to do most anything.
Love . . . I put so much faith in it. Truth . . . I kept believing it falls always from the lips of the one you love and trust the most. Faith . . . it’s all bound up to love and trust. Where does one end and the other start, and how do you tell when love is the blindest of all?
Asleep you don’t feel pain or hunger, or loneliness, or bitterness. In sleep you can drown in false euphoria, and when you awaken, you just don’t care about anything.
It was the eyes. The secret of love was in the eyes, the way one person looked at another, the way eyes communicated and spoke when the lips never moved.
There is no hate such as that born out of love betrayed—and
God, He didn’t write the scripts for the puny little players down here. We wrote them ourselves—with each day we lived, each word we spoke, each thought we etched on our brains.
