Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning.
one of the best and the most painful things about time traveling has been the opportunity to see my mother alive.
I sit quietly and think about my mom. It's funny how memory erodes, If all I had to work from were my childhood memories, my knowledge of my mother would be faded and soft, with a few sharp memories standing out.
I think about my mother singing after lunch on a Summer afternoon, twirling in blue dress across the floor of her dressing room
At meals Mama and Papa would observe each other from opposite ends of the long table, and Mama's grey eyes would fly angry silences at Papa, who would catch them in his enormous mustache. Their marriage was a tall column of pain, like a fluted vase. Balanced precariously on the fricative point at which Mama's personality met Papa's chin, it was always about to fall over and smash.
Never give your children a childhood they'll need to heal from
