The truth is that you do forget people. When you conjure them up, long after they have gone, you can’t recall the essence of them, just the outline.

It’s funny to think that Anson and I were here, in this same place, together all that time ago, and now here we are again. It makes me feel good, makes me feel that perhaps everything doesn’t just disappear, that some things are circling back, taking the long way, but circling back towards me.

I like the candor of dogs. They’re always honest about what they’re feeling.

It’s so hard to get life right, she thinks, pulling the blanket tight around her shoulders. All the small balances are impossible to strike most of the time. And then there are the larger choices.

Another time might be easier than this one, but there’s only the time you’re in, thinks Enid. And it’s always going to be lacking somehow. Best to spend some of your moments here on earth noticing what else is here with you instead of concentrating solely on your own misery.

I am a writer. The proof of how I am feeling is always in my pen.

For maybe this is how poetry can be of use. Though it can’t move with us, we can move it between us, pass it among us, so it is held up by our voices, so it moves with our breath, our living breath.

The strong don’t necessarily survive, but the mean invariably do.

In the end, I will have to make a choice about how to tell my story... There has to be a moment of going forward, when all the possibilities are left behind.

I don’t think anymore that my life is about what has happened to me. It’s about what I choose to believe. It’s not what I can see, but what I think is out there. And in the end, this end, here is what I believe. The heart is a wild and fugitive creature. The heart is a dog who comes home.