He had a moment of clarity about how life should be lived: not as a child or as a woman. They were the two worst things to be.
He had a moment of clarity about how life should be lived: not as a child or as a woman. They were the two worst things to be.
I wish you all a long and happy life.
She sat in her room on the couch my parents had given up on and worked on hardening herself. Take deep breaths and hold them. Try to stay still for longer and longer periods of time. Make yourself small and like a stone. Curl the edges of yourself up and fold them under where no one can see.
When Lindsey and I played Barbies Barbie and Ken got married at sixteen. To us there was only one true love in everyone's life we have no concept of compromise or retries.
He was beginning to understand: You were treated special and, later, something horrible would be told to you.
If I had but an hour of love, if that be all that is given me, an hour of love upon this earth, I would give my love to thee.
She thought of sex as the Star Trek transport.You vaporized and found yourself navigating another planet within the second or two it took to realign.
When they reached the lobby and the doors opened I knew they were meant to be there, the four of them, alone.
About Grandma Lynn: She was waiting patiently. She no longer believed in talk. At seventy, she had come to believe in time alone.
He would find his Susie,inside his young son. Give that love to the living.
Life is a perpetual yesterday for us.
She was in the downstairs bathroom sneaking bites from the macaroons my father's firm always sent us for Christmas. She ate them greedily they were like suns bursting open in her mouth.
You don't notice the dead leaving when they really hoose to leave you. You're not meant to. At most you feel them as a whisper or the wave of a whisper undulating down.
After a few days in heaven, I realized that the javelin-throwers and the shot-putters and the boys who played basketball on the cracked blacktop were all in their own version of heaven. Theirs just fit with mine- didn't duplicate it precisely, but had a lot of the same things going on inside.
Heaven is comfort, but it's still not living.
Look what happens when we dream.
So there are cakes and pillows and colors galore, but underneath this more obvious patchwork quilt are places like a quiet room where you can go and hold someone's hand and not have to say anything.
Your first kiss is destiny knocking.
All you have to do is desire it, and if you desire it enough and understand why -- really know -- it will come.
His love for my mother wasn't about looking back and loving something that would never chance. It was about loving my mother for everything--for her brokenness and her fleeing, for her being there right then in that moment before the sun rose and the hospital staff came in. It was about touching that hair with the side of his fingertip and knowing yet plumbing fearlessly the depths of her ocean eyes.
Loss could be used as a measure of beauty in a woman.
Sometimes the dreams that come true are the dreams you never even knew you had.
You're dead and you have to accept it.
Almost everyone in heaven has someone on Earth they watch, a loved one, a friend or even a stranger who was once kind, who offered warm food or a bright smile when one of us had needed it. And when I wasn't watching I could hear the others talking to those they loved on Earth: just as fruitlessly as me, I'm afraid. A one-sided card cajoling and coaching of the young, a one way loving and desiring of their mates, a single-sided card that could never get signed.
How could it be that you could love someone so much and keep it secret from yourself as you woke daily so far from home?
Murder had a blood red door on the other side of which was everything unimaginable to everyone.
The dead are never exactly seen by the living, but many people seem acutely aware of something changed around them. They speak of a chill in the air. The mates of the deceased wake from dreams and see a figure standing at the end of thier bed, or in a doorway, or boarding, phantomlike, a city bus.
It was then that, without knowing how, I revealed myself. In every piece of glass, in every shard and sliver, I cast my face. My father glanced down and around him, his eyes roving across the room. Wild. It was just for a second, and then I was gone.
And my sister, my Lindsey, left me in her memories, where I was meant to be.
I fell in love with you again; While you were away.
My father had not been outside the house except to drive back and forth to work or sit out in the backyard, for months, nor had he seen his neighbors. Now he looked at them, from face to face, until he realized I had been loved by people he didn't even recognize. His heart filled up, warm again as it had not been in what seemed so long to him- save small forgotten moments with Buckley, the accidents of love that happened with his son.
The living deserve attention, too
Something so divine that no one up in heaven could have made it up; the care a child took with an adult.
As if in the other side of his kiss there could ve a new life.
I focused very hard on the dead geranium in his line of vision. I thought if I could make it bloom he would have his answer. In my heaven it bloomed. In my heaven geranium petals swirled in eddies up to my waist. On Earth nothing happened... I stood alone in a sea of bright petals.
My grandmother stepped back into the kitchen to get their drinks. I had come to love her more after death than I ever had on Earth. I wish I could say that in that moment in the kitchen she decided to quit drinking, but I now saw that drinking was a part of what made her who she was. If the worst of what she left on Earth was a legacy of inebriated support, it was a good legacy in my book.
The shadow of years was not as big on his small body. He knew I was away . But when people left they always came back.
As she brought prospective buyers through, the realtor said it was an oil stain, but it was me, seeping out of the bag.
I had rescued the moment by using my camera and in that way had found how to stop time and hold it. No one could take that image away from me because I owned it.
My name was Salmon, like the fish; first name, Susie. I was fourteen when I was murdered on December 6, 1973.
Then a little voice in him said, Let go, let go, let go.
At fourteen my sister sailed away from me into a place I'd never been. In the walls of my sex there was horror and blood, in the walls of hers there were windows.
I loved the way the burned-out flashcubes of the Kodak Instamatic marked a moment that had passed, one that would now be gone forever except for a picture.
No one on the street thought anything of the downtown girl dressed in black who had paused in the middle of midtown foot traffic. In her art student camouflage she could walk the entire length of Manhattan and, if not blend in, be classified and therefore ignored.
There was one thing my murderer didn't understand; he didn't understand how much a father could love his child.
At nearly two months,the idea of it as news was fading in the hearts of all but my family-and Ruth
I stared at her black hair. It was shiny like the promises in magazines.
Once released from life, having lost it in such violence, I couldn't calculate my steps. I didn't have time for contemplation. In violence it is the getting out that you concentrate on. When you begin to go over the edge, life receding from you as a boat recedes inevitably from the shore, you hold on to death tightly, like a rope that will transport you, and you swing out on it, hoping to land away from where you are.
There was our father, the heart we knew held all of us. Held us heavily and desperately, the doors of his heart opening and closing with the rapidity of stops on an instrument, the quiet felt closures, the ghostly fingering, practice and practice and then, incredibly, sound and melody and warmth.
At the tips of the feathers there is air and at their base: blood. I hold up bones; I wish like broken glass they could court light… still I try to place these pieces back together, to set them firm, to make murdered girls live again.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories