The Summer Children

Scars mean we survived something, even when the wounds still hurt.

It isn't impossible to heal from that, but it leaves scars. It changes the way you look at people, how far you can trust or let people in. It changes your habits, even your desires and dreams. It changes who you are, and no matter how much you struggle back toward that place, that person you started as, you never actually get there. Some change is irreversible.

But why am I sad?" "Because doors close, and we can still miss what was on the other side even if we choose to walk away.

Once upon a time there was a little girl who was scared of the dark. Which was silly, even she knew that. There was nothing in the dark to hurt you that wasn't also in the light. You just couldn't see it coming.

Being a victim isn’t something that disappears as soon as you’re rescued. It doesn’t vanish the moment the people who hurt you are taken into custody. That sense of it, that awareness of being not just victimized but a victim, it sticks to your bones for years, even decades. That sense of the thing can cause as much damage as the original trauma, as life goes on.

There was a line there, firmly drawn, between friend and Mum, and if a situation ever neared that line, she was always going to come down on the Mum side. But up until that line, she could be — and was, and is — both.

Poor Eddison. With the exception of Vic, he’s doomed to spend his life surrounded by strong, prickly, opinionated women, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve never really been sure what he did to deserve such glorious distress.

If you were afraid of something in the light, wasn’t it just good sense to be more afraid of it in the dark?

She hated seeing herself in pictures because her eyes always yelled the things she wasn’t allowed to say, and still no one listened.

You draw a map, you make a plan, and then it’s all suddenly upended, and you’re so caught up in the changes as they happen that it doesn’t really sink in until further down the road.

[She] saw my thorns and never tried to tell me I shouldn't have them.

There’s an outer limit to how much you can heal. There comes a point where time just isn’t a factor anymore: it’s done as much as it can do.

He regards us all with grave, worried eyes as he hands out bowls of western scramble, like omelets but lazier.

Because doors close,” I say instead, “and we can still miss what was on the other side even if we choose to walk away.

Her apartment is up on the second floor, and she pauses with her key in the lock. "It might be a little messy right now," she says apologetically. "I've been going though everything to pull donations." "Is there a clear path?" "Yes." "Are there bugs?" "No," she says more slowly, giving me a sideways stink-eye. "Is anything growing?" "No!" "Then we're good." "You have depressingly low standards," she sighs, and pushes the door open to flick on the entry light.

isn’t impossible to heal from that, but it leaves scars. It changes the way you look at people, how far you can trust or let people in. It changes your habits, even your desires and dreams.

MARCO!” she yells, and there’s a ripple of shocked laughter through the trees.

being a team—being family—means she’ll be lucky to piss in peace because we’re not leaving her alone.

Even when something’s wrong, the ending of the thing hurts.

Marlene Hanoverian’s raspberry trifle,” she says dreamily. “I’d marry her if she swung that way.” “And if she didn’t have fifty-plus years on you?” “Those fifty-plus years have taught her to make the best goddamn pistachio cannoli ever. I am all sorts of good with those extra decades.

Give it to God,” he says simply. “How you feel about it is yours and yours alone. Whether or not you should be judged; that’s for God.

You hear ‘jail’ and you don’t expect to be proud by the end of it.

Life sucks and then you die: some days it’s hard to tell the difference

Ideally, our task is to be Justice. Without prejudice or preconceived notions, weigh the information and bring down the sword.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was afraid of change. She went out bravely into the world anyway.

Family meeting this morning.” “Oh, God, I do not need to know this.” “Yes, you do. Tío is sick.” “Which tío?” There’s a heavy silence, and after far too long, it clicks. “Oh.” My father. “Pancreatic cancer,” she continues once it’s clear I won’t. “Painful.” “The family wants to get him out of prison for treatment.” “Probably not happening, but not any of my business regardless.

Scars mean we survived something even if the wounds still hurt.