Tell No One

But I remembered how the laugh and the howl and the splash would ripple and echo in the stillness of our lake, and I wondered if ripples and echoes like those ever fully die away, if somewhere in the woods my father’s joyful yelps still bounced quietly off the trees. Silly thought, but there you go.

Don't show me paradise and then burn it down.

Well-meaning friends – often the worst kind – handed me the usual clichés, and so I feel in a pretty good position to warn you: Just offer your deepest condolences. Don't tell me I'm young. Don't tell me it'll get better. Don't tell me she's in a better place. Don't tell me it's part of some divine plan. Don't tell me that I was lucky to have known such a love. Every one of those platitudes pissed me off. They made me – and this is going to sound uncharitable – stare at the idiot and wonder why he or she still breathed while my Elizabeth rotted.

I started crying immediately. Sobbing uncontrollably. I sobbed like that for almost a week without letup. I sobbed through the funeral. I let no one touch me, not even Shauna or Einda. I slept alone in our bed, burying my head in Elizabeth 's pillow, trying to smell her. I went through her closets and pressed her clothes against my face. None of this was comforting. It was weird and it hurt. But it was her smell, a part of her, and I did it anyway.

Our first kiss was exquisite and familiar and frighteningly desperate, two people who'd finally reached the surface after misjudging the depth of the water.

I learned that just because you can't see any other explanation doesn't mean that one doesn't exist. It just means you can't see it."

two hearts become one. When one dies, the other follows.

The Bad Man isn't lurking in playgrounds, kiddies. He lives in your house.

Sex is for anyone; the aftermath is for lovers.

Hope, that caged bird that just won't die, broke free.