“A girl?" Her mother looked at her, curiously, as if the word were unknown to her; ancient and puzzling as an artifact behind a glass encasement.”

“Eventually, as her grandmother’s sobs softened, she pulled her away and – looking deeply into the clouds of her grey eyes – lifted her and led her home for the last time.”

“Her letter bled from word to word, in three sour sentences.”

“She looked over at her grandmother, smiling in her sleep from what she hoped was a dream about George Bailey and the angel that would eventually save him.”

“She looked up and saw the right angles of time above her as the clock hit three.”

“Parker fixated on the envelope's precise penmanship as she lifted it. Her grandmother rarely took the time to write her own name in the return address, let alone give it the aesthetic attention that this one so seemed to demand. Once, when Parker questioned her on this, her grandmother casually asserted that she "didn't quite believe in envelopes" as if this were a debatable concept like Socialism or wearing white after Labor Day.”

“Parker and her mother exchanged small talk like a pair of strangers in an elevator. What a nice day it was and how loud the airplanes flew overhead and this statement and that observation to fill the time.”