Beneath a Scarlet Sky

What we keep in boxes when we can't admit we're letting go.

I see the rocking chair I used when my grandchildren were young, then an old crib and a ratty-looking rocking horse set on rusty springs, and the chair my daughter was refinishing when she got sick. Boxes are tucked along the wall, marked “Xmas,” “Thanksgiving,” “Easter,” “Halloween,” “Serveware,” “Sports.” In those boxes are the things I don’t use much anymore but can’t bear to part with. For me, admitting that I won’t decorate a tree for Christmas is giving up, and I’ve never been good at letting go. Tucked in the corner is what I am looking for: an ancient steamer trunk covered in travel stickers.

The Nightingale · Kristin Hannah

Grief does its healing underground, months before anyone notices.

She did not know and would not have believed it, but beneath the layer of slime that covered her soul and seemed to her impenetrable, delicate young shoots of grass were already sprouting, which taking root would so cover with their living verdure the grief that weighed her down that it would soon no longer be seen or noticed. The wound had begun to heal from within.

War and Peace · Leo Tolstoy

The original Athenians were twins. Then the zodiac joke arrives.

Correct.“ Kekrops sounded bitter, like he regretted his decision. ”My people were the original Athenians—the gemini.“ ”Like your zodiac sign?“ Percy asked. ”I’m a Leo.“ ”No, stupid,“ Leo said. ”I’m a Leo. You’re a Percy.

The Blood of Olympus · Rick Riordan