“Must protect my little pockets of happiness.”

“The thought has cheered me, and I'd like to hang onto that. Must protect my little pockets of happiness.”

“I've decided it's not about me at all. It's a protective mechanism for them, a way of buffering themselves against my future death, like when teenagers distance themselves from their parents in preparation for leaving home.”

“I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page.”

“They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.”

“I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin.I want.”

“I reach for the napkin, and as I do I catch sight of my hands. They are knobby and crooked, thin-skinned, and—like my ruined face—covered with liver spots.My face. I push the porridge aside and open my vanity mirror. I should know better by now, but somehow I still expect to see myself. Instead, I find an Appalachian apple doll, withered and spotty, with dewlaps and bags and long floppy ears. A few strands of white hair spring absurdly from its spotted skull.I try to brush the hairs flat with my hand and freeze at the sight of my old hand on my old head. I lean close and open my eyes very wide, trying to see beyond the sagging flesh.It's no good. Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes, I can't find myself anymore. When did I stop being me?”