other words

Confession: I have not picked up one book since I finished my M.A. in September. I guess when school turns a love into work, it becomes sometimes too daunting to return to that lost love and try to remember what you once loved about it. But although the magic left books for awhile, I feel that love returning, albeit slowly, this year. I hope.

In the meantime, last year, before September, I still read, and sometimes for pleasure, and these are some of the favourite lines I came across:

"Goddamn," John said to me when he closed the book. "Don't ever tell me again you can't write. That's my birthday present to you."
I remember tears coming to my eyes.
I feel them now.
In retrospect, this had been my omen, my message, the early snowfall, the birthday present no one else could give me.
He had twenty-five nights left to live.

I know it's early, but I keep thinking he's still here. Well, not here, I know he's not here, but on his way here. On his way back from somewhere coming here.
Of course, I don't think it's my old dad in his old body coming here. It's my old dad, in a new form.
Thinking your dad might be coming in a new form is not so bad. It's like you're always excited, and getting ready, and listening for the door.

Or when your heart crashed so young at 54 as you fell from mom's arms t the dance floor did you see islands?

I don't like to think of myself as an insincere person but if I say I love you and I don't mean it then what else am I? Will I cherish you, adore you, make way or you, make myself better for you, look at you and always see you, tell you the truth? And if love is not those things then what things?