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I am going to relate to you the most lamentable love affair of my life.

What small song do you sing under your breath that is only for you?

How High Is the Moon? Too high to be touched, too high to be felt.

Louise Farmer Smith

Her body had become a scale, a device for measuring grief.

It was hard to know what memories or images had marked him.

Sometimes you weren’t a good daughter, the mother says.

With a world full of foolishly dangerous men, what’s a mother to do?

As our friendship declined into torture, the prairie grew hotter.

His shirt, he realized, was completely soaked, and he could actually see his heart rippling beneath the cotton.

She wags her index finger so furiously that I’m certain it will snap off.

It’s a girls’ college we’re going to, but all the guys know Polly’s name.

Elinor had loved a man. The journey’s purpose was that she might forget.

His mother’s face had been that pretty, though more resigned.

Heaven preserve me from the Epidemic of a Proud Ignorance!

I watched to see how the others lived, not knowing I was the Other.

These days I watch the world go by and do not breathe life into it.

My daughter is learning how much guessing is in motherhood.

What were the unsafe things to say even in a thirty-year marriage?

There are parts of a man that are born again with each of his daughters.

I must never go to the garden without a heavy stick or a corn-knife.

I keep dripping milk until I’m sitting in a pool of it, sticky, white. I can’t move.

She rocks quickly from side to side, proud, lifting herself higher.

I sensed that a name defined who I was and would be in the future.

A friend of my father’s once told me, “You’ll never be a writer.”

Favorite character? What a question. It’s like choosing a favorite child.

A more typical writing day for me is being constantly interrupted.

I once heard in a sermon, “Choose the important over the urgent.”

Every really good book on first reading is life changing.