The Infinite Pieces of Us

by Rebekah Crane

I am no longer a whole number. I carry a decimal now. Each box in my room is just a reminder of my remainder. The problem is, I can’t figure out if I’m less than or more than I was before. I know I’m not the same.

trust is handing over a piece of your heart to someone and believing they’ll hold it as delicately as you do.

being a parent meant being perpetually afraid that something might happen to the one thing you don’t want to lose. That every day you’ll worry and think about this possibility to the point of madness, until all that’s left is to throw your hands up and have faith that it’s all going to be OK.”

“Infinity exists in the whole,” Beth says, her arms moving to emphasize each of the words. “You can be infinite and finite at the same time. You’re born and you die. Finite. But there’s a part of you, your soul, that has always existed, so it was never born, and it can never die. Infinite. It’s so freaking mind-blowing. Only God could think of that.”

That’s the plight of women—no matter how miraculous we are, we still have to live in a world governed by men’s standards.

What was never born can never die. The present is the only place.”