I remember a new heaviness in my body, but maybe that's the work of time and my looking back.

My sisters and I stand on the deck, the shale tile cool against the soles of our feet - for a week it seems we never have to wear shoes - and take turns twirling, the matching turquoise silk skirts my mother bought us sliding coolly up our legs, our laughter flying out over the ocean. We are all light and happy and far, far away from home.

In the books I find the thrum of everything unsayable. The characters weep the way I want to, love the way I want to, cry, die, beat their breasts, and bray with life.

Time is passing : not leaden stepping
But sprinting on winged feet,
Quick silver slipping by.

I’m not the biggest fan of family photographs. Think about it for a second…not only do they remind you, yet again, of how fast your children have grown; but they also provide evidence of how beautiful and thin you USED to be…or the shock that you never were as beautiful or thin as you thought you were. I don't need any of that.

One of the things I dread about becoming an adult is that sooner or later you begin letting sentimentality get in the way of simple logic. False feelings are allowed to clog the works like raw honey poured into the tiny wheels of a fine timepiece.