What the Light Touches

by Xavier Bosch

“Don’t sell yourself short, because other people will. That’s how life is.”

If you asked me now what kind of ice cream it was, I couldn’t remember. But I could tell you any flavor, and they’d all be true. That’s the thing about half-remembered memories—we can put them together the way we want. And exaggerate them. Literature is full of stories like that.

Since the time of sirens and planes had begun, Ferdinand had slept with his ears open. Sleep is never completely deep during times of war.

she lamented that her experiences with Damien were slowly losing color, like an old photo. She was too young to look back. At eighteen years old, it wasn’t her time to be nostalgic.

The secret to living longer and better is,” she declared with the voice of an afternoon program for children, “eat half, walk double, laugh triple, and love without measure.

“But it would be good to have it written. It’s a valuable testimonial.” “For whom?” “For Barbara, above all.” “Valuable?” She thought about it and picked out its advantages. “I don’t know. It’s just a life. Memories are memories. If they weigh heavily, they’re more annoying than useful.”