Eva Luna

by Isabel Allende

“There is no death, daughter. People die only when we forget them,” my mother explained shortly before she left me. “If you can remember me, I will be with you always.”

“Not everyone is destined to emigrate, Rolf. She has found peace, cultivating her garden and her memories.”

I took his hand and held it firmly for a moment; his skin felt warm to the touch, and again I had the impression I had known him for thousands of years.