“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.”

“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.”

“At a time when Parker might have craved the comfort of certainty, she instead held tight to her wavering thoughts; To the gravity and thrill of a new adventure; To the promise of everything and nothing all at once.”

“Parker, I'm old," She said matter-of-factly. "I get away with these things." She continued to wave and smile wildly. "People treat me like an idiot so I'm allowed to act like one from time to time. It's one of the perks.”

“Parker sat on the opposite end of the couch, distracted by thoughts of the coming year and all the secrets it kept from her.”

“This was what Parker had learned early on about disappointment; its sting lasts only in the beginning, only until the body goes numb from its repetition.”

“Parker soon became familiar with the one certainty of sorrow, that ultimately loneliness trumps logic.”