I picture you four girls back when you were small. I hardly knew where you ended and the other ones started.

Show me a girl with her feet planted firmly on the ground and I'll show you a girl who can't put her pants on.
-Annik Marchand

She hadn't chosen the brave life. She'd chosen the small, fearful one.

I killed her once and died for her many times and I still have nothing to show for it. I always search for her ; I always remember her. I carry the hope that someday she will remember me.

I allowed myself to suffer how jarringly destructive the present feels and how fragile the past.

Grief was like a newborn, and the first three months were hard as hell, but by six months you'd recognized defeat, shifted your life around, and made room for it.