“And the pomegranates,/like memories, are bittersweet/as we huddle together,/remembering just how good/life used to be”

“As time passes, the day will come when everything will fade to memories. But those miraculous days, when you and I, along with everyone else, searched together for just that one thing, will continue revolving forever somewhere deep in my heart, as my bittersweet memory.”

“We sit huddled together for a few minutes, just being there with one another, and it feels dangerous to me that nobody is saying anything.”

“Now that I have opened that bottle of memories they're pouring out like wine, crimson and bittersweet.”

“You know, they straightened out the Mississippi River in places, to make room for hourse and livable acreage. Occasionally the river floods these places. "Floods" is the word they use, but in fact it is not flooding; it is remembering. Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. Writers are like that: remembering where we were, that valley we ran through, what the banks were like, the light that was there and the route back to our original place. It is emotional memory--what the nerves and the skin remember as well as how it appeared. And a rush of imagination is our "flooding.”

“Memories, even bittersweet ones, are better than nothing.”