I’ve never thought there was anything I could hope to get by praying for it.
Here, falling in love can be an event, a proclamation without acknowledging that everyone you love could die an awful death, that loving someone is an acceptance of impending loss.
She let him go once. Every day demands that she release him over and over again.
But she’s still afraid that the more she misses him–his face, his skin, the way he looked at her–and the more hope she has that she’ll see him again, the more she has to lose.
But there it is: Everyone is alone, for life, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
I feel too much. It’s like being drummed to death from within. You know?
Our stories are what we have,” Our Good Mother says. “Our stories preserve us. we give them to one another. Our stories have value. Do you understand?
…even a poisoned, desolate childhood can be missed.
Love is a luxury. It’s something that people are allowed to indulge in when they’re not simply trying to survive and keep other people alive.
Sometimes the only way to fix a mistake- is to make it twice.
Weakness, like not being able to bury the past. Weakness, like not giving up hope when you know you should.
Even if their supplies of love are finite, they’ve figured out that life is, too, and they’re no longer rationing.
What does it mean to be Catholic and not a Catholic? I feel adrift, homeless. My Catholic imagination allows me to see the soul as a lit breath, seeking the divine. It persists.