The Book of Lost Names

Recovery isn’t restoration; it’s learning the shape of the pieces.

Everyone has that moment I think, the moment when something so momentous happens that it rips your very being into small pieces. And then you have to stop. For a long time, you gather your pieces. And it takes such a very long time, not to fit them back together, but to assemble them in a new way, not necessarily a better way. More, a way you can live with until you know for certain that this piece should go there, and that one there.

Girl in Pieces · Kathleen Glasgow

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

The consolation a parent leaves behind: a flower that needs winter to bloom.

Caroline wiped her cheek with the back of her gardening glove, leaving a dark smudge below one eye, then pulled off her gloves. ‘But it’s fitting in a way - Father loved the fact that a lilac only blossoms after a harsh winter.’ Caroline reached over and smoothed the hair back from my brow with a light touch. How many times had my mother done that? ‘It’s a miracle all of this beauty emerges after such hardship, don’t you think?

Lilac Girls · Martha Hall Kelly