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“Okay is the preserve of the uninspired, Patchwork. I’d rather live and die at the extremes than exist in the middle.”
“You’re pressing pause, kid.” Patch nodded, though knew a pause by its very definition was a temporary thing.
“Being a mother, there’s no practice for it. Just because you can do it, because you’re able, doesn’t mean you’re good at it. And if you’re not, it’s not just your life…”
God is a first call and a last resort, from christening to death bed. In between is where faith is tested. The mundanity.
Her grandmother told her first love was the most terminal of ailments.
“Women teach men how to be men?” Saint said. “Of course. How else do you think they learn?”
“The bad are the few, but often they shout louder than the many. Don’t mistake silence for weakness.”
“How do I fix things?” she said. “You’re not always able. But you take a moment and remind yourself where your north is.
“Like color in the dark,” Patch said. “Yes. Exactly yes. Nothing is so dark with them in the world.”
To love and be loved was more than could ever be expected, more than enough for a thousand ordinary lifetimes.
