I miss those meals. I miss being handed a tray of something, no choices.
Here is July 1: the 182nd day of the year, the halfway point, the midsection of 2014, with 183 days left.
I hope that whatever you’re running toward, it’s a mighty good place.
Don’t you think we come to the beach because we want to stop moving? The road ends, we can’t go any farther, we are forced to stop. To finally be still.
In eliminating poetry from our lives, we miss discovering a pursuit of pleasure that we didn’t even know we needed.
The pictures may look the same on screen, but we can no longer legitimately call them “films.”
From the living room, which faces east, they’ll see it rise. I’ll bet it’ll be bright. I’ll bet it’ll be beautiful.
Before I was old enough for midnight movies or grown-up parties or Champagne dinners, I spent every New Year’s Eve at my grandmother’s house.
It’s becoming so clear to me that real gifts aren’t the ones under the tree.