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Life, I’d learned, is a revolving door. Most things that come into it only stay awhile.
Until that moment, I’d carried my life like a handkerchief knapsack at the end of a broom handle, something small and containable I could pick up and move at the drop of a hat. And I never knew what it was I was running from, or to, until he said it.
Home. The word stoked an ember in my chest. Here was the permanence I’d been waiting for. A place that would belong to us.
when people are always late, I don’t expect them to be reliable,
If you don’t give other people responsibility for your feelings, you can have a decent relationship with most of them.”
“Out here, you’re small and there’s no one else around, but you’re not lonely. It’s like you’re connected to everyone and everything.”
longing for the kind of noise, clutter, permanence that comes from having a family,
“And you can’t control it, anyway. Feelings are like weather. They just happen, and then they pass.”
the key to being able to talk to anyone might just be curiosity.
Those are the moments that make a life.
The same universe that dispassionately takes things away can bring you things you weren’t imaginative enough to dream up.
So many of the most beautiful things in life are unexpected.
“Funny story…” he says, but he doesn’t go on, just watches me and waits. He knows how much I love to tell it.