Good things come to those who let them in. All you have to do is take a chance.

We make attachments to what’s familiar. We find the beauty, even in the lack. That’s human. We make the best of what we’re given.

Music is a bridge, it connects folks on a higher level, saying what words can’t say.

I answer her with my silence, understanding the full power of it for the first time. Words are weapons. Weapons are powerful. So are unsaid words. So are unused weapons.

Happiness is free, Mama says, as sure as the blinkin' stars, the withered arms the trees throw down for our fires, the waterproofin' on our skin, and the tongues of wind curlin' the walnut leaves before slidin' down our ears.

Funny how we can't hold onto time, even when it's strapped to our wrists

My sister don't talk much. When she does, it's only to me, in moth-winged whispers, and only when we're alone.

He had spoken in a whisper and she answered in one – though perhaps not how he had expected. “Do you not find it singular that people lower their voices when they enter a library? Almost as though they were churches, holy sites of treasures waiting to be discovered.

I take my hand back, like a leaf letting go. It hurts too much to hang on. So why does it hurt so much to let go?

My life's a tangle of past and present, like two separate puzzles with their pieces tumbled together. Nothing fits.