The Book of Flora (The Road to Nowhere, #3)

by Meg Elison

Now I see that if I do not carry my past with me, it will wrap itself around my ankles and drag me down. There is no living without it. There is no pretending I am not the sum of all these things.

Coincidence, she thought. The things we see too many times, and the things we only see once. That’s what we make into religion. Those are the things we have to struggle to explain, so we make something up.

I used to think that the losses in my life would slow down or maybe cease, that I wouldn’t always be mourning and saying goodbye. But the older I get, the more constant that state becomes.

I’m older now than I’ve ever been.