“She loved me coming and going, at my worst and at my best. She had a bottomless well of love for me.”

“She had a bottomless well of love for me.”

“I made such a fool of myself,” she lamented.“Love does not make you a fool.”“He didn’t love me back.”“That does not make you a fool, either.”“Just tell me …” Her voice cracked. “When does it stop hurting?”“Sometimes never.”

“Kids chase the love that eludes them, and for me, that was my father's love. He kept it tucked away, like papers in a briefcase. And I kept trying to get in there.”

“But my father, a thief in many ways, had robbed me of my concentration.”

“Tell me about your family," I said. And so she did. I listened intently as my mother went through each branch of the tree. Years later, after the funeral, Maria had asked me questions about the family - who was related to whom - and I struggled. I couldn't remember. A big chunk of our history had been buried with my mother. You should never let your past disappear that way.”

“but then she did. she died. no more visits, no more phone calls. And without even realizing it, I began to drift, as if my roots had been pulled, as if I were floating down some side branch of a river.”