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Her father, a friend of Julian’s, had been murdered twenty-nine years ago, yet here was Julian, no stranger to violence, his eyes glistening. Caitlin tried to combine the two pieces of the man. They didn’t fit, and her only explanation was the poetic wisdom of Walt Whitman—we contain multitudes.
‘The world isn’t kind, so friends must be.’ It makes me happy to help.”
many of them seemed to believe Catholics practiced witchcraft.
The cemetery was a testament to the stupidity of the men who started wars and the bravery of those who fought them.
“When does the grief end?” “It doesn’t. Grief changes shape.” “To what?” Caitlin asked. “Memories.”
Interesting thought.
the intellectual posturing of the well fed, the irrelevant chatter of the lucky ones.
