Like Mom, Zoe thought–like Mom used to. And that’s where they differed, for Zoe wrote quiet poetry suffused with twilight and questions. It’s not even good poetry, she thought. I don’t have talent, it’s her. I should be the one ill; she has so much to offer, so much life. “You’re a dark one,†her mother said sometimes with amused wonder. “You’re a mystery.
— Annette Curtis Klause
bargainingcancerdying-mother