Books were faithful and reliable. You could pack them up and put them in a box, run your hands over the spines, flip through their pages full of memories. They always came with you, wherever you went.

I am going to live for the color of grass. I am going to keep living because of that.

I am going to live for the color of grass. I am going to keep living because of that

I realized I was still caught between two worlds. I missed the idealism and even the redundancy of home, the little routines of my father's, like throwing his keys in the air, and the way my mom's smile could make the whole world forget its worries...