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She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing, remembering who she used to be, needing that woman back like yesterday.
It was the pity she couldn’t take. It felt like it burned her skin and set her insides on fire. Mask on. Eyes ahead.
Could a healthy tree grow from a twisted root?
“What decade are you in, Al? Are you really advocating for America, love it or leave it?”
looked to be the kind of person who sucked up all the oxygen in a room, the kind you noticed and shied away from for fear of being swept into her vortex.
Muscle memory, wasn’t it? Like riding a bike or falling off a log.
Foster’s mind worked overtime when the world was too quiet and still. Ghosts visited in the night when time refused to budge, the hands on the clock unwilling to bring the relief of a welcome sunrise.
It wasn’t the dead she feared but the memories they left in their wake.
“Yes. Life is hard sometimes, Toddie; it just is. Terrible things happen, but good things happen too. All we can do sometimes is hold on for the good things and reach out to the people who love us.”
Subtlety, not savagery, is the key. Precision. Artistry, which I’m sure you can appreciate, but artistry takes time, experience. The mind has to be uncluttered, singularly engaged. One thought. One goal.”
Life. Full of maybes.
