It was just your life. You were just living your life.

She had taken her vows and then they had taken her, and the forces amassed against her were greater than love, greater than obligation. They were elemental, heavy as a dead planet.

My mom insisted on saying such things, even though almost no one understood what she meant. My Dad sometimes called her Addlebrain because she read so many books.

On Jesus: “Everyone around me was flat-out in love with him, and who wouldn’t be? He was good with animals, he loved his mother, and he wasn’t afraid of blind people.

The book was so clean and white, and the letters were so perfectly black and defenseless; it would have been like tearing the ears off a kitten.

I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how long a person had to live, or how good she had to be, to get her hands on some treasure.

I sensed weeping and salvation in the air, two of my least favorite things.

It was an Indian summer afternoon in Indiana, a rare gift. We walked home slowly. I thought Mom might be wrong about me having all I needed, but just at that moment, I had no need to complain.

My mother was good at reading books, making cinnamon biscuits, and coloring in a coloring book. Also she was a good eater of popcorn and knitter of sweaters with my initials right in them. She could sit really still. She knew how to believe in God and sing really loudly. When she sneezed our whole house rocked. My father was a great smoker and driver of vehicles... He could hold a full coffee cup while driving and never spill a drop, even going over bumps. He lost his temper faster than anyone.

Mooreland is a long way to go to not to be anywhere when you get there.