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all her life, she’d thought of death as the single moment, the heart stopping, the final breath, but now she knew that it could be much more like giving birth, with nine months of preparation.
That was the real power move—to be missed.
her memories were all pictures without sound.
It was embarrassing, if you slowed down long enough to think about it, how many major life decisions happened because they looked like the model you’d been given.
Things were always changing, even when they didn’t feel like it.
It was important to have friends who could listen to you say what you needed to say and not burst into laughter.
What a very long time one had to be an adult, after rushing through childhood and adolescence.
Maybe that was the trick to life: to notice all the tiny moments in the day when everything else fell away and, for a split second, or maybe even a few seconds, you had no worries, only pleasure, only appreciation of what was right in front of you.
The problem with adulthood was feeling like everything came with a timer—a
The way you spend your days is the way you spend your life.
Nothing could hurt her, because everything was temporary. All she had to do was last the day.
Why was it so hard to see that, how close generations were? That children and their parents were companions through life.
Happy endings were too much for some people, false and cheap, but hope—hope was honest. Hope was good.
