The Smallest Part

In the end, only three things matter: How much you loved, How gently you lived, And how gracefully you let go Of things not meant for you. Unknown

Kissing is a thousand times more intimate than sex. He knew some people would disagree, but the first thing that goes when a marriage is coming apart is not the sex. It’s the kissing.

Words are like souls. Soundless, even shapeless. But full of substance.

Our friends shape the course of our lives. You have to choose them very carefully. But if you know who He is, then He will help you know who you are. And if you know who you are, you will know who your true friends are. One thing leads to another, you see.

hurt people hurt people.” It was true, but it didn’t mean it was okay.

It may be a small part, but you’ll kill it,” Noah promised. “I know you will. Sometimes it’s the smallest part that steals the show.

They moved silently in each other's orbits, solitary planets in a lonely galaxy.

Don't talk ill of the dead,' people say. But if we aren't truthful about who our loved ones were, then we aren't really remembering them. We're creating someone who didn't exist.

We are more than just a collection of bones, cobbled together by God or by eons of evolution. We have souls. We have purpose. We're more.

Life wasn't about getting what you deserved. It was about enduring what you didn't and not letting it destroy you.

He might be the easiest man in the universe to love, because he expects so little. He expects nothing and is grateful for everything. With a man like that, how could you worry about being enough?

I don’t HAVE to believe anything. I believe in God because Abuela believes in God. And the God Abuela believes in is kind, and He loves all of His children. Especially the ones who need Him the most. Especially the ones who are sad enough that they want to die. He isn’t going to send them away to hell or anywhere else. That’s what I believe.

know it’s not something we’re supposed to say. We’re supposed to be all-loving and all-compassionate all the time. But sometimes the things we aren’t supposed to say are the truths that keep us sane, that tether us to reality, that help us move the hell on! I know some of my colleagues would be shocked to hear it. But pressure—whether it’s the pressure of society, or the pressure of responsibility, or the pressure that comes with being loved and being needed—isn’t always a bad thing. You’ve heard the cliché about pressure and diamonds. It’s a cliché because it’s true. Pressure sometimes begets beautiful things.

But regardless of illness or weakness, if we don’t own our actions and don’t demand that others own theirs, then what’s the point? We might as well give up now. We have to expect better of ourselves. We have to.

You are a tiny, worker ant. You never stop. Never take a break. You work harder than anyone I know. And you carry everyone else’s weight. You always have. But you can’t be strong all the time. I forget that too.

But . . . what if . . . I’m not enough?” Cora whispered. And there it was. At the heart of everything, Cora was still the little girl whose dad had chosen death over her, and nothing would ever convince her otherwise. “You’re the only one holding a yardstick,” Mercedes said. “What?” “You decide if you’re enough. Noah already thinks you’re enough. He chose you. Just like you said. But he can’t change the way you feel about yourself. That’s up to you, Cora.

In the end, only three things matter,” Abuela said. “Who He is.” She pointed at the sky. “Who you are, and who your friends are.

Mami told me not to tell her when my friends hurt me, because I would forgive them eventually, and she never would.

We’re more than male or female. More than our lips and tongues, more than our hearts and our lungs, more than the muscles that move beneath our skin and the blood that runs through our veins. We’re more than our arms and legs. More than our eyes. More than our feet and hands. We’re more than just a collection of bones, cobbled together by God or eons of evolution. We have souls. We have purpose. We’re more.

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.’ It’s a quote by Aristotle,

the end, only three things matter: How much you loved, How gently you lived, And how gracefully you let go Of things not meant for you. Unknown

I know it’s not something we’re supposed to say. We’re supposed to be all-loving and all-compassionate all the time. But sometimes the things we aren’t supposed to say are the truths that keep us sane, that tether us to reality, that help us move the hell on! I know some of my colleagues would be shocked to hear it. But pressure—whether it’s the pressure of society, or the pressure of responsibility, or the pressure that comes with being loved and being needed—isn’t always a bad thing. You’ve heard the cliché about pressure and diamonds. It’s a cliché because it’s true. Pressure sometimes begets beautiful things.

David—Tag—Taggert was vibrating like a junkie, though he was clean as a whistle and had been for weeks. He drank too much before he arrived at Montlake, but that wasn’t his problem now. Moses Wright was eyeing him, eyeing everyone, but his eyes had taken on the faraway gleam that made Noah think of pinwheels and John Davis Cutler. He’d been on duty the night they brought Moses Wright in, heavily sedated, and again a few nights later when Tag Taggert had been brought in, shouting and crying. It was an oddly accurate first impression of both.

His pulse pounded, and his body raged, wanting to succumb, to give her passion instead of patience, lust instead of longsuffering. But the anguish of adoration would heal them—he believed that—

Commitment didn’t require genetics, and he was all in. But he’d never been one to stick his head in the sand. It was too frightening, too dark and gritty, his ass in the wind, his senses dulled. Whatever the truth was, he wanted to know it, if only to better protect his daughter, to better understand his wife, and to better prepare himself.

Mercedes had no trouble believing there was a whole host of things she didn’t understand about life and death. She’d always had good instincts and she trusted them. Noah was no pushover either. If he said the artist saw dead people, the artist saw dead people. End of subject.

Didn’t you ever notice that whatever you wanted or whatever you set out to do, Cora wanted to do it too?” Noah asked. “She wasn’t like that.” “She was, Mer. And it’s okay to admit it. One of the hardest things about Cora dying is that everyone wants to erase her—the real Cora. They talk about her as though she were perfect. She wasn’t. ‘Don’t talk ill of the dead,’ people say. But if we aren’t truthful about who our loved ones were, then we aren’t really remembering them. We’re creating someone who didn’t exist. Cora loved you. She loved me. But what she did was not okay. And I’m pissed off about it.” Mercedes reeled back, stunned. “Geez, Noah. Tell me how you really feel. She still deserves our compassion,” she rebuked. He nodded. “Everyone deserves compassion. And I know suicide isn’t always a conscious act. Most of the time it’s sheer desperation. It’s a moment of weakness that we can’t come back from. But regardless of illness or weakness, if we don’t own our actions and don’t demand that others own theirs, then what’s the point? We might as well give up now. We have to expect better of ourselves. We have to. I expect more of my patients, and when I expect more—lovingly, patiently—they tend to rise to that expectation. Maybe not all the way up, but they rise. They improve because I believe they can, and I believe they must. My mom was sick. But she didn’t try hard enough to get better. She found a way to cope—and that’s important—but she never varied from it. Life has to be more than coping. It has to be.” Mercedes nodded slowly, her eyes clinging to his impassioned face. She’d struck a nerve, and he wasn’t finished. “I know it’s not something we’re supposed to say. We’re supposed to be all-loving and all-compassionate all the time. But sometimes the things we aren’t supposed to say are the truths that keep us sane, that tether us to reality, that help us move the hell on! I know some of my colleagues would be shocked to hear it. But pressure—whether it’s the pressure of society, or the pressure of responsibility, or the pressure that comes with being loved and being needed—isn’t always a bad thing. You’ve heard the cliché about pressure and diamonds. It’s a cliché because it’s true. Pressure sometimes begets beautiful things.” Mercedes was silent, studying his handsome face, his tight shoulders, and his clenched fists. He was weary, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t wrong. “Begets?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye. He rolled his eyes. “You know damn well what beget means.” “In the Bible, beget means to give birth to. I wouldn’t mind giving birth to a diamond,” she mused. “You ruin all my best lectures.” There was silence from the kitchen. Silence was not good. “Gia?” Noah called. “What, Daddy?” she answered sweetly. “Are you pooping in your new princess panties?” “No. Poopin’ in box.” “What box?” His voice rose in horror. “Kitty box.” Noah was on his feet, racing toward the kitchen. Mercedes followed. Gia was naked—her Cinderella panties abandoned in the middle of the floor—and perched above the new litter box. “No!” Noah roared in horror, scooping her up and marching to the toilet. “Maybe it won’t be a turd, Noah. Maybe Gia will beget a diamond,” Mercedes chirped, trying not to laugh. “I blame you, Mer!” he called from the bathroom. “She was almost potty-trained, and now she wants to be a cat!

He’d had a psychology professor who used to say, “hurt people hurt people.