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My mother was not good at saving or making money, but she loved beauty.
“Perhaps you’ll mention my book in your book someday,” she said, surprising me with the idea that one book might refer to another like Russian dolls;
His house was crumbling in places and tended to in others, a configuration of attention and neglect I didn’t understand.
He was not the father I’d imagined from the skeleton of facts I’d known.
“They teach you how other people think, during your most productive years,”
How I loved him! It was involuntary; I couldn’t help it.
In movies, there is the scene when the dying person apologizes—but this was life.
