She filed those moments away like precious documents, wore them smooth with memory, collected them like bits of prayers.

Childhood memories were like airplane luggage; no matter how far you were traveling or how long you needed them to last, you were only ever allowed two bags. And while those bags might hold a few hazy recollections—a diner with a jukebox at the table, being pushed on a swing set, the way it felt to be picked up and spun around—it didn’t seem enough to last a whole lifetime.

I grew up in the house. All the memories -- that's the hard part. But we're OK.

We decided to make this a huge splash. Geri is just so inspiring. She has so many memories.

There are certain things in life that you'll be forgiven for, no matter how thoughtless or stupid or reckless, but if you do that same thing twice, you're on your own.

Is it possible not to ever know your type--not to even know you have a type--until quite suddenly you do?