Quotes by "Jason Shinder"
Just when it seemed my mother couldn’t bear one more needle, one more insane orange pill, my sister, in silence, stood at the end of the bed and slowly rubbed her feet, which were scratchy with hard, yellow skin, and dirt cramped beneath the broken nails, which changed nothing in time except the way my mother was lost in it for a while as if with a kind of relief that doesn’t relieve. And then, with her eyes closed, my mother said the one or two words the living have for gratefulness, which is a kind of forgetting, with a sense of what it means to be alive long enough to love someone. Thank you, she said. As for me, I didn’t care how her voice suddenly seemed low and kind, or what failures and triumphs of the body and spirit brought her to that point— just that it sounded like hope, stupid hope.
