“The trees around and overhead were so thick that it was always dry inside and on Sunday morning I lay there with Jonas, listening to his stories. All cat stories start with the statement: "My mother, who was the first cat, told me this," and I lay with my head close to Jonas and listened. There was no change coming, I thought here, only spring; I was wrong to be so frightened. The days would get warmer, and Uncle Julian would sit in the sun, and Constance would laugh when she worked in the garden, and it would always be the same. Jonas went on and on ("And then we sang! And then we sang!") and the leaves moved overhead and it would always be the same.”

“All cat stories start with this statement: "My mother, who was the first cat, told me this...”

“Sarah looked at Jonas. Instinctively she knew, if anyone was going to get Hannah through this, it would be Jonas - but who was going to get him through it?”

“Morning would come before we knew it. It always did. But we still had the night, and for now, we were together, so I just closed my eyes and drank it all in.”

“One day, as My uncle Antonio was heading out to a cantina, I slipped a story I had written into his shirt pocket. It was story about a little boy who would poke his finger with a needle and make it bleed. The boy did it so he would get some attention from his mother. It worked out great for a while. But one day, his mother came into the boy’s room, lifted up his sheets and found the boy’s cold body. The little boy had bled to death. The next morning, I awoke to find a new black and white speckled composition notebook sitting next to my head....”

“Not everyone is treated with such respect. But whenever my father sang, all the birds in the area would fall silent and listen. His voice was beautiful, high and clear and so filled with life it made you want to laugh and cry at the same time.”