“We could go to Lough Bealach,' Aislinn answered.'Is that a place, or are you choking?' I asked, earning me a glare in return.Dad made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh.”

“But if a stranger in the train asks me my occupation, I never answer "writer" for fear that he may go on to ask me what I write, and to answer "poetry" would embarrass us both, for we both know that nobody can earn a living simply by writing poetry.”

“You know what really chokes me up? Being strangled.”

“You already gave me forever, Aislinn. I'm asking for a chance at right now.”

“I wish you could have been there for the sun & the rain & the long, hard hills. For the sound of a thousand conversations scattered along the road. For the people laughing & crying & remembering at the end. But, mainly, I wish you could have been there.”

“Are we going where I think we are?” he asked.“Hell, yeah,” I told him, turning the key in the ignition. I steered the car toward the highway that would take us to my mother’s house. “And I hope she’s got a few good answers.”“I hope,” Ramon said, “that she’s made cookies.”I glared at him.“Don’t look at me like that. If we were going to interrogate my poor mother for whatever, you’d be secretly hoping she’d made you tamales. I’m just honest enough to admit it.”