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I can hear my brother's voice in my head. Your problem is that you're too emotional. But how can I not be emotional, Rowan? How can I not care?

Lauren DeStefano

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Lauren DeStefano
Age: 40
Born: 1984
Born: October 13
Author
Novelist
Connecticut
United States
Emotional
Hear
Head
Voice
Care
Problem
Rowan
Brother

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A strange thing, words. Once they're said, it's hard to imagine they're untrue.
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Once upon a time there were two parents, two children, and a brick house with lilies in the yard. The parents died, the lilies wilted. One child disappeared. Then the other. Pg 225
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It's the silence I imagine in the rest of the world, the silence of an endless ocean and uninhabitable island, a silence that can be seen from space.
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and I've always known it, the way I love a song I hear for the first time, even before I know all the words, the way I love my favorite color, and the way that the train would speed past my bedroom when it was very quiet and I'd feel it in my stomach rushing through me. I love you in a way that I've never felt needed to be said.
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It doesn't matter how much his mother loves him love is not enough to keep any of us alive.
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She would do anything, anything to belong to his son after a lifetime of belonging to no one at all.
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I think, in this strange world of beautiful things, there may be some humanity after all.
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It's best to let her go, he says. No, no, that's wrong. It's never right to give up on someone.
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I see an ocean that’s spilled out of a wineglass, its body clear and sparkling and folding over itself. I see a ribbon of sand.
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Real’ is a dirty word in this place.
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Times like this, when she slips her hand into mine and holds on tight, and our husband becomes just a shadow in the doorway.
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I watch the ashes swim around like dandelion puffs, making swirls where bodies and walls once stood.
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I don't dare touch her. Loss is a knowledge I'm sorry to have. Perhaps the only thing worse than experiencing it, is watching it replay anew in someone else--all the awful stages picking up like a chorus that has to be sung.
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Poor kid,' Jenna says, and rolls her eyes toward me for a moment. Then she returns to her book. 'She doesn't even understand what kind of place this is.
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But I know all the things you're too sweet to know.
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...maybe hope isn't such a bad thing. Maybe it's what keeps us together.
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I miss something I never even had.
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It was my fifth grade teacher who introduced the idea that writing could be more than a hobby for me.
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