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you can’t put much trust in people who want what you have on Thursdays but won’t talk to you come Sunday morning.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years I been helping Granny deliver babies and work her cures, it’s that ladies are miles tougher than menfolk, and much nicer patients, too.
I’m pretty good at faking brave. When something or someone is important enough to me.
Folks acted their best on Sunday morning—all smiles and hands clasped in prayer. But the same hands hurt and killed, then buried their sins in shallow graves so they might dig them up late at night, after they’d put God to sleep.
“Folks always got something wicked to say about people who are different, don’t they?”
“Wherever a witch’s blood is spilled, a curse remains on the land. That’s the saying, all right. Nobody ever blames the men that do the killing and the burning, do they? Instead, they blame the witch.”
Why is it that most of a woman’s troubles in life have to do with a man?
“Life’s just one burden after another, till we die. But it’s the happy things—the good things—that make it all worthwhile. Things like kisses.”
It was surreal, how everything continued, how everything kept on after a person died. Shouldn’t time stop for grief, even for a moment, so one might catch their breath before things started moving again?
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize that home is less about the place you live, and more about the people who love you. The memories you make. The laughter and tears and all the moments in between.
