Shadow Man

She doesn't speak, and I say nothing more. We just stare at each other, letting the tears roll down our cheeks. That's what tears are for, after all. A way for the soul to bleed.

That's what tears are for, after all. A way for the soul to bleed. Pg. 109

Life is smoke, plain and simple; we just fool ourselves that it’s otherwise. All it takes is one good gust and we float away and disappear, leaving behind only the scent of our passing in the form of memories.

This is the thing, I think often, that never occurs to you when you consider what it would be like to lose someone you love. That you would miss not just the flowers and kisses, but the totality of the experience. You miss the failures and little evils with as much desperation as you miss being held in the middle of the night. I wish he were here now, and I was kissing him. I wish he were here now, and I was betraying him. Either would be fine, so fine, as long as he was here.

As much as we might like to break, we’re really only made to bend.

The simple fact is that evil preys on good, and today, good had a bad day. Which brings with it an acceptance of the other side of that argument, that tomorrow might be evil's turn for some rain. And that's called hope.

Love is not about romance or passion. Love is about a state of grace. You experience it when you accept the absolute truth of the other person, both the cruel and the divine, and they accept these things in you, and you find that you still long to share a life with them. To know the worst in another and still want them with all your soul. To know that they feel the same way. It is a sense of security and power. And once you have arrived at this, the richness of romance and passion that appears is not blinding. Instead, it is invulnerable and forever.

People ask sometimes, when they get up the courage, what it's like to lose someone you love. I tell them it's hard, and leave it at that. I could tell them that it's a crucifixion of the heart. I could say that most days after, I screamed without stopping, even as I moved through the city, even with my mouth closed, even though I didn't make a sound. I could tell them I have this dream, every night, and lose him again, every morning. But, hey, why ruin their day? So I tell them it's hard. That usually seems to satisfy them.

Grief is like that sometimes. Like water, it finds any opening, forces itself through any crack until it explodes, inexorable.

The truth is, bad things are going to happen somewhere, every single day, and today was just your turn.

The First Rule of Mom: Love. The Second Rule of Mom: Feed your offspring.

One of the gifts of a long marriage is the ability to communicate anything—from mild displeasure to the meaning of life—with a single glance. It’s something you develop in the process of mixing your soul with your spouse’s, if you’re willing to mix your soul.

The symphony of motherhood, it’s about loving with absolute abandon, loving without regard for self, loving with a near totality of being. It’s about a passion that could outburn the sun with its brightness. About a depthless hope and a fierce, rending joy.

I miss everything about him being in my life. Not just the good things. I miss his flaws as achingly as I miss the beautiful parts of him. I miss his impatience, his anger. I miss the patronizing look he would give me sometimes when I was mad at him. I miss being annoyed by the fact that he’d always forget to fill the gas tank, leaving it near empty when I was ready to go somewhere. This is the thing, I think often, that never occurs to you when you consider what it would be like to lose someone you love. That you would miss not just the flowers and kisses, but the totality of the experience. You miss the failures and little evils with as much desperation as you miss being held in the middle of the night. I wish he were here now, and I was kissing him. I wish he were here now, and I was betraying him. Either would be fine, so fine, as long as he was here. People ask sometimes, when they get up the courage, what it’s like to lose someone you love. I tell them it’s hard, and leave it at that. I could tell them that it’s a crucifixion of the heart. I could say that most days after, I screamed without stopping, even as I moved through the city, even with my mouth closed, even though I didn’t make a sound. I could tell them I have this dream, every night, and lose him again, every morning. But, hey, why ruin their day? So I tell them it’s hard. That usually seems to satisfy them.

This is the thing, I think often, that never occurs to you when you consider what it would be like to lose someone you love. That you would miss not just the flowers and kisses, but the totality of the experience. You miss the failures and little evils with as much desperation as you miss being held in the middle of the night.

Love is about a state of grace. You experience it when you accept the absolute truth of the other person, both the cruel and the divine, and they accept these things in you, and you find that you still long to share a life with them. To know the worst in another and still want them with all your soul. To know that they feel the same. It is a sense of security and power. And once you have arrived at this, the richness of romance and passion that appears is not blinding. Instead, it is invulnerable and forever.

A large part of being a parent is a constant near certainty that you are screwing it up, and it is comforting to be able to spread the blame around.