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Some days, you could not imagine in the morning what they would hold by the time they closed.
His mother wasn’t one for intervention. Not in anything. “This too shall pass” was one of her favorite sayings. Or, “God’s will,” she’d say, and sigh. Sam had decided early on that these were cop-outs.
Sam thought he’d rather be like his father, who tried, than like his mother, who watched her life go by like she was a spectator at a parade that slightly displeased her.
She’d been around the sun enough to know that nothing—good or bad—ever truly lasted.
Sobriety, she thought, was tiresome, too.
Hope was a thin thread to hang on to, but sometimes it was all you had.
It was a strange thing about getting old: everyone imagined you knew nothing about anything, or that you couldn’t “handle” it—as if you hadn’t handled a thousand things they had no idea about before they were even born.
“What’s life for, Lucky, if all you ever try to do is survive it?”
Tell him that light comes out of the darkness; that without darkness there could be no light,
