69 Quotes by Brenda Sutton Rose

I come here for the solitude. I come to soak myself in memories before they evaporate, before they float so far from my memory that I can't catch them.

Storytelling tastes best in the kitchen, told deep inside the aroma of cooking, told with stomachs growling and mouths salivating. In the kitchen, partnerships formed, bargains began, forgiveness came with the sharing of food.

There are parents who use their small children as weapons. They are weak people. Sick people. And their children are watching them, watching how Mom and Dad use them as weapons.

I pour buttermilk into the crater and work the mixture until it is pasty. Using my fingers, I pull dry flour into the wet ingredients, building on the dough, kneading it, drawing meal from the sides. My fingers make small circles while my hand makes a larger circular motion, working around the bowl.

My mother’s dress bears the stains of her life:blueberries, blood, bleach, and breast milk;She cradles in her arms a lifetime of love and sorrow;Its brilliance nearly blinds me.

I could go to a dozen houses, scrape away the dirt, and find his footprints, but my own prints evaporated before I ever looked back.

A song rises up from the belly of my pastand rocks me in the bosom of buried memories.

The place cast a spell on me, a lovely spell that seduced me one one breath at a time.

During my childhood, I saw at least ten thousand fireflies shimmering their amber lights in the darkness and never once longed to dissect a single one to discover the source of its magic. I’m older now, my youth behind me, and fireflies continue to fill me with the joy of childhood. I refuse to dissect their magic. We all need a miracle or two or three to cling to, and I will always cling to the miracle of fireflies on a summer’s night.