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Evidence of his mother, out there, elsewhere, so worried about somebody else’s children though she’d left her own behind. The irony of it leached into his veins.
he turned away, so she wouldn’t have to pretend to be brave. To let her be alone with her grief, or whatever heavier thing she’d put on top to hold it down.
If we fear something, it is all the more imperative we study it thoroughly.
She was always doing that, telling him stories. Prying open cracks for magic to seep in, making the world a place of possibility.
The way he handled her, like butter to be licked off a finger.
The long nights they spent reading side by side on the couch, her feet in his lap, sharing favorite passages so often that afterward, she felt she’d read his book, and he hers.
They’d been dangerous, he thought; they’d loved him so fiercely it had made them dangerous.
Who ever thinks, recalling the face of the one they loved who is gone: yes, I looked at you enough, I loved you enough, we had enough time, any of this was enough?
She couldn’t understand it, at the time, what had fascinated Margaret so, but she thought she saw it now, the softness in him, the promise that there could be gentleness in this world.
