“You're right," Early said. "Those are two different things.""What are?", I asked, surprised that he thought I was right about ANYTHING."Dying and sleeping. A person should be able to do one without the other sneaking up on him.”

“We’d all agreed that we’d outgrown jumping rope, but Shady had given me such a nice gift of a skipping rope, and when there’s nothing better to do, I guess you go back to what once felt good.”

“You're right," Early said. "Those are two different things.""What are?", I asked, surprised that he thought I was right about ANYTHING."Dying and sleeping. A person should be able to do one without the other sneaking up on him.”

“Suddenly, the double doors of the parlor whooshed open. A large fleshy woman stood before me in full regalia. Her eyes were all made up, earrings and bracelets jangling. The sign in the window said Miss Sadie was a medium. From the look of her, I'd say that was a bit wishful.”

“But my mom shook her head at him and said to me, "Yes, you made your bed, but for heaven's sakes, don't just lie in it!”

“And in the background of Early's story was her voice. Her soul. Her sadness and longing. Because when it's raining, it's always Billie Holiday. p. 81”

“My mother was like sand. The kind that warms you on a beach when you come shivering out of the cold water. The kind that clings to your body, leaving its impression on your skin to remind you where you’ve been and where you’ve come from. The kind you keep finding in your shoes and your pockets long after you’ve left the beach. She was also like the sand that archaeologists dig through. Layers and layers of sand that have kept dinosaur bones together for millions of years. And as hot and dusty and plain as that sand might be, those archaeologists are grateful for it, because without it to keep the bones in place, everything would scatter. Everything would fall apart.”

“What would you rather be, Jackie? Angry mad or crazy mad? I think I'd rather be crazy mad, because you can be crazy and still happy.”

“If there is such a thing as a universal--and I wasn't ready to throw all of mine out the window--it's that there is power in a story. And if someone pays you such a kindness as to make up a tale so you'll enjoy a gingersnap, you go along with that story and enjoy every last bite.”

“Eustasia Johannsen was ready. Anyone could see that. Everything about her ancient self gave evidence to it: Her skin, wrinkled and transparent... But mainly, it was her eyes. They were drawn into her face as if her memories occupied more of her sight than what was actually in front of her.”

“Maybe that was how I found comfort just then, even with him being so far away. By remembering the flavor of his words.”