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It was the Magic Hour, the moment in time when every leaf and blade of grass seemed to separate, when sunlight, burnished by the rain and softened by the coming night, gave the world an impossibly beautiful glow.

Kristin Hannah

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Kristin Hannah
Age: 64
Born: 1960
Born: September 25
Novelist
Writer
Garden Grove
California
Every
Gave
Blades
Time
Magic
Leaf
World
Coming
Sunlight
Burnished
Hours
Separate
Impossibly
Moment
Grass
Softened
Moments
Seemed
Blade
Night
Hour
Glow
Beautiful
Rain
Leafs

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It’s a promise ring,” he said solemnly. “The lady at the store said it’s what you give the girl you love. It means I want to marry you someday.
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That was the one thing she knew now. Some chances came and went, and if you missed them, you could spend the rest of your life standing alone, waiting for an opportunity that had already passed you by.
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The hallmark of my books is the relationships that define women's lives.
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I always thought it was what I wanted: to be loved and admired. Now I think perhaps I'd like to be known.
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It's not intentions that matter. It's actions. We are what we do and say, not what we intend to.
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That was the thing about best friends. Like sisters and mothers, they could piss you off and make you cry and break your heart, but in the end, when the chips were down, they were there, making you laugh even in your darkest hours.
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And maybe that was how it was supposed to be...Joy and sadness were part of the package the trick, perhaps,was to let yourself feel all of it, but to hold on to the joy just a little more tightly.
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Sometimes holding on was all you could do.
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A daughter without her mother is a woman broken. It is a loss that turns to arthritis and settles deep into her bones.
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Then he left her there, standing alone, surrounded by word ghosts things she could have said.
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She waited for you in a thousand different ways.
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And no one drank just one shot of tequila.
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Lately he'd been seen going out less and less, becoming that strangest of animals in a small town: a loner.
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Sitting around and waiting for your muse is not the best choice.
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Jude remembered this pain. Every woman had felt some version of it: the end of first love. It was when you learned, for good and always, that love could be impermanent.
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No mother. Two small words, and yet within them lay a bottomless well of pain and loss, a ceaseless mourning for touches that were never received and words of wisdom that were never spoken. No single word was big enough to adequately describe the loss of your mother.
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Some stories don't have happy endings. Even love stories. Maybe especially love stories.
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