Memorial Day Thank You Quotes

Don’t you think it’s actually harder for you . . . to adapt, I mean? Because you’ve done all that stuff?’ ‘Are you asking me if I wish I'd never done it?’ ‘I’m just wondering if it would have been easier for you. If you’d led a smaller life. To live like this, I mean.’ ‘I will never, ever regret the things I've done. Because most days, if you’re stuck in one of these, all you have are the places n your memory that you can go to.’ He smiled. It was tight, as if it cost him. ‘So if you’re asking me would I rather be reminiscing about the view of the caste from the minimart, or that lovely row of shops down off the roundabout, then, no. My life was just fine, thanks.

You think you will never forget any of this, you will remember it always just the way it was. But you can't remember it the way it was. To know it, you have to be living in the presence of it right as it is happening. It can return only by surprise. Speaking of these things tells you that there are no words for them that are equal to them or that can restore them to your mind. And so you have a life that you are living only now, now and now and now, gone before you can speak of it, and you must be thankful for living day by day, moment by moment, in this presence. But you have a life too that you remember. It stays with you. YOu have lived a life in the breath and pulse and living light of the present, and your memories of it, remember now, are of a different life in a different world and time. When you remember the past, you are not remembering it as it was. You are remembering it as it is. It is a vision or a dream, present with you in the present, alive with you in the only time you are alive.

Dear Josh, Thank you for giving me the most amazing memories. My life growing up was so full because you were in it. Having your love and loving you was always just right. It made sense. You were my home. When I was with you I knew everything would be okay. You dried my tears for me when I was sad. You held my hand when we buried my mother. You made me laugh when the world seemed like it was falling apart. You were every special memory a girl could have. That first kiss will forever be embedded in my brain. It was as funny as it was sweet. Our life together molded me into the woman I’ve become. I understand what it feels like to be loved and cherished because I had that with you. I never doubted my worth because you taught me I was worthy. When you said that one day I would heal I didn’t believe that was possible. Life couldn’t go one without my best friend. There was no room for another guy in my heart. It turns out you were right. You always were. I found him. He is incredible. He is nothing at all like I would have planned. He doesn’t fit into a perfect package. He managed to wiggle into my heart and take over before I knew what was happening. I found that happiness you told me would come along. I’m going to go live that life. I’m sure it will be a wilder ride than I ever imagined and I can’t wait to live it. He’s my home now. I’ll always love you. I’ll never forget you. But this is my goodbye. I wasn’t ready before to let you go. Now, I can move on. Your memory will live on in my heart always. Love, Your Eva Blue

My Sabine, I just left your room. You were so beautiful lying there sound asleep that I couldn’t bear to wake you. But I’m not feeling so great and there are things I promised to tell you that I fear I may not get the chance to. I know you had once hoped that I would be the one to pass on your letters to Maddie once you were gone. But, as it turns out, I think it is going to be me who ends up leaving the letters behind. Be mad at me. You should. But after that try to understand that I did what I thought was best. I wanted to tell you. So many times I snuck down to your room planning on telling you everything, but I just couldn’t. Partly it was for you – yes. You needed time and I didn’t want to influence your choices, even once I realised what was happening between us, even more so then. Falling in love with you only made those choices more complicated and I feared that you might choose to stay for me and then, after I was gone, change your mind. I couldn’t let that happen. Partly the choice was selfish, and for that I am sorry. For so long now people have been trying to fix me, but where they failed, you succeeded. You’ve given me more life in the last couple of weeks that I’ve had in years. Being with you, loving you, making memories with you, fearing for you, wanting to show you the beauty of life instead of the terror – it was bittersweet, but more importantly Sabine, it was real. I know this is the part when I beg you to go on, live your life and be happy. But I don’t need to say those things. I know you. Your lives will be extraordinary. You certainly made mine feel that way. Please find it in your heart to forgive me one day. I wish we had more time, but I want to thank you – for giving me life in my time of death. My love for you is eternal. Ethan.

I give you life in the memory of one who no longer lives. May you have a long life, and may you thank Matthew every day for it.

I love you, Bowen Montgomery. I love you so very much, and that will never change, even when we're old and gray. I thank God for you every single day, and that you came and lifted me from the depths of despair. You showed me how it can be with a man who loves me, and you've shined light on the darkest shadows of my memories.

For John Dillinger In hope he is still alive Thanksgiving Day, November 28, 1986 In hope he is still alive Thanks for the wild turkey and the Passenger Pigeons, destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts; thanks for a Continent to despoil and poison; thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger; thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin, leaving the carcass to rot; thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes; thanks for the American Dream to vulgarize and falsify until the bare lies shine through; thanks for the KKK; for nigger-killing lawmen feeling their notches; for decent church-going women with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces; thanks for Kill a Queer for Christ stickers; thanks for laboratory AIDS; thanks for Prohibition and the War Against Drugs; thanks for a country where nobody is allowed to mind his own business; thanks for a nation of finks—yes, thanks for all the memories all right, lets see your arms; you always were a headache and you always were a bore; thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams.

I may say that I have forgotten a certain thing. Partially false; it has just faded I know. Unintentionally that thing might have prick-ed me more than the other things that I might have let go. I will only understand its depth, if after years of persuasive erosions and new etch marks, I dream about you one fine night; having nothing to do with my present. Just some sweet-bitter memories might surface one day. And that one day I will regret and at the same time thank to have met you in my life.

A long hug when you really need it Sometimes we all get rattled. When bad news surprises you, painful memories flash back, or heavy moments turn your stomach to mush, it’s great to fall into a warm and comforting pair of big, wide open arms. Shaking with sobs, dripping with tears, you snort up your runny nose and smear snot across their shoulder as that hug relaxes you and comforts you and helps you get through everything, even for a minute, even for a moment. Maybe there are “It’s going to be okay” whispers, some gentle back rubbing, or just the quiet silence of knowing that they’re not going to let go until you let go first. As their steady arms support you, and the pain washes over you, the hug gives you a warm glow in a shivery moment. So when you eventually pull back, smile that classic “I’m sorry and thank you” smile, and swipe wet bangs off your forehead, you still might not feel great, but if you’re lucky you’ll feel a little more AWESOME!

You are silent now who once stood on battlefields ravaged by destruction unimaginable, holding in those desperate places the line of freedom for others you would never know, and who would never know you. And being one of those you never knew, I would give all I have to clasp your hand one single time, look into eyes that witnessed the bloodied carnage that results when freedom refuses to bow to chains of any kind, and simply say 'thank you.

What is Destiny? Is it a doctrine formulated by aristocrats and philosophers arguing that there is some unseen driving force predicting the outcomes of every minuscule and life altering moment in one's life? Or is it the artistry illustrated by those under-qualifed and over-eager to give their future meaning and their ambitions hope? Is it a declaration by those who refuse to accept that we are alone in this universe, spinning randomly through a matrix of accidental coincidences? Or is it the assumptions made by those who concede that there is a divine plan or pre-ordained path for each human being,regardless of their current station? I think destiny is a bit of a tease.... It's syndical taunts and teases mock those naive enough to believe in its black jack dealing of inevitable futures. Its evolution from puppy dogs and ice cream to razor blades and broken mirrors characterizes the fickle nature of its sordid underbelly. Those relying on its decisive measures will fracture under its harsh rules. Those embracing the fact that life happens at a million miles a minute will flourish in its random grace. Destiny has afforded me the most magical memories and unbelievably tragic experiences that have molded and shaped my life into what it is today...beautiful. I fully accept the mirage that destiny promises and the reality it can produce. Without the invisible momentum carried with its sincere fabrication of coming attraction, destiny is the covenant we rely on to get ourselves through the day. To the destiny I know awaits me, I thank you in advance. Don't cry because it's over....smile because it happened.

Abundance is not the money you have in your bank account, the trophies on your shelf, the letters after your name, the list of goals reached, the number of people you know, your perfect, healthy body, your adoring fans. Abundance is your connection to each breath, how sensitive you are to every flicker of sensation and emotion in the body. It is the delight with which you savor each unique moment, the joy with which you greet each new day. It is knowing yourself as presence, the power that creates and moves worlds. It is your open heart, how deeply moved you are by love every day, your willingness to embrace, to hold what needs to be held. It is the freshness of each morning unencumbered by memory or false hope. Abundance is the feeling of the afternoon breeze on your cheeks, the sun warming your face. It is meeting others in the field of honesty and vulnerability, connecting beyond the story, sharing what is alive. It is your rootedness in the present moment, knowing that you are always Home, no matter what happens, no matter what is gained or lost. It is touching life at the point of creation, never looking back, feeling the belly rise and fall, thanking each breath, giving praise to each breath. It is falling to your knees in awe, laughing at the stories they tell about you, sinking more deeply into rest. Abundance is simplicity. It is kindness. It is you, before every sunrise: fresh, open, and awake. You are rich, friend! You are rich!

My Darling, It is late at night and though the words are coming hard to me, I can’t escape the feeling that it’s time that I finally answer your question. Of course I forgive you. I forgive you now, and I forgave you the moment I read your letter. In my heart, I had no other choice. Leaving you once was hard enough; to have done it a second time would have been impossible. I loved you too much to have let you go again. Though I’m still grieving over what might have been, I find myself thankful that you came into my life for even a short period of time. In the beginning, I’d assumed that we were somehow brought together to help you through your time of grief. Yet now, one year later, I’ve come to believe that it was the other way around. Ironically, I am in the same position you were, the first time we met. As I write, I am struggling with the ghost of someone I loved and lost. I now understand more fully the difficulties you were going through, and I realize how painful it must have been for you to move on. Sometimes my grief is overwhelming, and even though I understand that we will never see each other again, there is a part of me that wants to hold on to you forever. It would be easy for me to do that because loving someone else might diminish my memories of you. Yet, this is the paradox: Even though I miss you greatly, it’s because of you that I don’t dread the future. Because you were able to fall in love with me, you have given me hope, my darling. You taught me that it’s possible to move forward in life, no matter how terrible your grief. And in your own way, you’ve made me believe that true love cannot be denied. Right now, I don’t think I’m ready, but this is my choice. Do not blame yourself. Because of you, I am hopeful that there will come a day when my sadness is replaced by something beautiful. Because of you, I have the strength to go on. I don’t know if spirits do indeed roam the world, but even if they do, I will sense your presence everywhere. When I listen to the ocean, it will be your whispers; when I see a dazzling sunset, it will be your image in the sky. You are not gone forever, no matter who comes into my life. you are standing with God, alongside my soul, helping to guide me toward a future that I cannot predict. This is not a good-bye, my darling, this is a thank-you. Thank you for coming into my life and giving me joy, thank you for loving me and receiving my love in return. Thank you for the memories I will cherish forever. But most of all, thank you for showing me that there will come a time when I can eventually let you go. I love you

For you, a thousand times over." "Children aren't coloring books. You don't get to fill them with your favorite colors." "...attention shifted to him like sunflowers turning to the sun." "But even when he wasn't around, he was." "When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal a wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. There is no act more wretched than stealing." "...she had a voice that made me think of warm milk and honey." "My heart stuttered at the thought of her." "...and I would walk by, pretending not to know her, but dying to." "It turned out that, like satan, cancer had many names." "Every woman needed a husband, even if he did silence the song in her." "The first time I saw the Pacific, I almost cried." "Proud. His eyes gleamed when he said that and I liked being on the receiving end of that look." "Make morning into a key and throw it into the well, Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly. Let the morning sun forget to rise in the East, Go slowly, lovely moon, go slowly." "Men are easy,... a man's plumbing is like his mind: simple, very few surprises. You ladies, on the other hand... well, God put a lot of thought into making you." "All my life, I'd been around men. That night, I discovered the tenderness of a woman." "And I could almost feel the emptiness in [her] womb, like it was a living, breathing thing. It had seeped into our marriage, that emptiness, into our laughs, and our lovemaking. And late at night, in the darkness of our room, I'd feel it rising from [her] and settling between us. Sleeping between us. Like a newborn child." "America was a river, roaring along unmindful of the past. I could wade into this river, let my sins drown to the bottom, let the waters carry me someplace far. Someplace with no ghosts, no memories, and no sins. If for nothing else, for that I embraced America." "...and every day I thank [God] that I am alive, not because I fear death, but because my wife has a husband and my son is not an orphan." "...lifting him from the certainty of turmoil and dropping him in a turmoil of uncertainty." "...sometimes the dead are luckier." "He walked like he was afraid to leave behind footprints. He moved as if not to stir the air around him." "...and when she locked her arms around my neck, when I smelled apples in her hair, I realized how much I had missed her. 'You're still the morning sun to me...' I whispered." "...there is a God, there always has been. I see him here, in the eys of the people in this [hospital] corridor of desperation. This is the real house of God, this is where those who have lost God will find Him... there is a God, there has to be, and now I will pray, I will pray that He will forgive that I have neglected Him all of these years, forgive that I have betrayed, lied, and sinned with impunity only to turn to Him now in my hour of need. I pray that He is as merciful, benevolent, and gracious as His book says He is.

It's like my garden, love. Everything grows. Including love. And with that growing every day, how can you expect the missing part to ever fade away? Everything builds, including our ability to cope with it. That's how we keep going.

Who are they for? Friends. Not necessarily neighbor friends: indeed, the larger share is intended for persons we've met maybe once, perhaps not at all. People who've struck our fancy. Like President Roosevelt. Like the Reverend and Mrs. J. C. Lucey, Baptist missionaries to Borneo who lectured here last winter. Or the little knife grinder who comes through town twice a year. Or Abner Packer, the driver of the six o'clock bus from Mobile, who exchanges waves with us every day as he passes in a dust-cloud whoosh. Or the young Wistons, a California couple whose car one afternoon broke down outside the house and who spent a pleasant hour chatting with us on the porch (young Mr. Wiston snapped our picture, the only one we've ever had taken). Is it because my friend is shy with everyone except strangers that these strangers, and merest acquaintances, seem to us our truest friends? I think yes. Also, the scrapbooks we keep of thank-you's on White House stationery, time-to-time communications from California and Borneo, the knife grinder's penny post cards, make us feel connected to eventful worlds beyond the kitchen with its view of a sky that stops.

Sparks come from the very source of light and are made of the purest brightness—so say the oldest legends. When a human Being is to be born, a spark begins to fall. First it flies through the darkness of outer space, then through galaxies, and finally, before it falls here, to Earth, the poor thing bumps into the orbits of planets. Each of them contaminates the spark with some Properties, while it darkens and fades. First Pluto draws the frame for this cosmic experiment and reveals its basic principles—life is a fleeting incident, followed by death, which will one day let the spark escape from the trap; there’s no other way out. Life is like an extremely demanding testing ground. From now on everything you do will count, every thought and every deed, but not for you to be punished or rewarded afterward, but because it is they that build your world. This is how the machine works. As it continues to fall, the spark crosses Neptune’s belt and is lost in its foggy vapors. As consolation Neptune gives it all sorts of illusions, a sleepy memory of its exodus, dreams about flying, fantasy, narcotics and books. Uranus equips it with the capacity for rebellion; from now on that will be proof of the memory of where the spark is from. As the spark passes the rings of Saturn, it becomes clear that waiting for it at the bottom is a prison. A labor camp, a hospital, rules and forms, a sickly body, fatal illness, the death of a loved one. But Jupiter gives it consolation, dignity and optimism, a splendid gift: things-will-work-out. Mars adds strength and aggression, which are sure to be of use. As it flies past the Sun, it is blinded, and all that it has left of its former, far-reaching consciousness is a small, stunted Self, separated from the rest, and so it will remain. I imagine it like this: a small torso, a crippled being with its wings torn off, a Fly tormented by cruel children; who knows how it will survive in the Gloom. Praise the Goddesses, now Venus stands in the way of its Fall. From her the spark gains the gift of love, the purest sympathy, the only thing that can save it and other sparks; thanks to the gifts of Venus they will be able to unite and support each other. Just before the Fall it catches on a small, strange planet that resembles a hypnotized Rabbit, and doesn’t turn on its own axis, but moves rapidly, staring at the Sun. This is Mercury, who gives it language, the capacity to communicate. As it passes the Moon, it gains something as intangible as the soul. Only then does it fall to Earth, and is immediately clothed in a body. Human, animal or vegetable. That’s the way it is. —

Will and Lake, Love is the most beautiful thing in the world. Unfortunately, it's also one of the hardest things in the world to hold on to, and one of the easiest to throw away. Neither of you has a mother or a father to go to for relationship advice anymore. Neither of you has anyone to go to for a shoulder to cry on when things get touch, and they will get touch. Neither of you has someone to go to when you just want to share the funny, or the happy, or the heartache. You are both at a disadvantage when it comes to this aspect of love. You both only have each other, and because of this, you will have to work harder at building a strong foundation for your future together. You are not only each other's love; you are also one another's sole confidant. I hand wrote some things onto strips of paper and folded them into stars. It might be an inspirational quote, an inspiring lyric, or just some downright good parental advice. I don't want you to open one and read it until you truly feel you need it. If you have a bad day, if the two of you fight, or if you just need something to lift your spirits...that's what these are for. You can open one together; you can open one alone. I just want there to be something both of you can go to, if and when you ever need it. Will...thank you. Thank you for coming into our lives. So much of the pain and worry I've been feeling has been alleviated by the mere fact that I know my daughter is loved by you....You are a wonderful man, and you've been a wonderful friend to me. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for loving my daughter like you do. You respect her, you don't need to change for her, and you inspire her. You can never know how grateful I have been for you, and how much peace you have brought my soul. And Lake; this is me-nudging your shoulder, giving you my approval. You couldn't have picked anyone better to love if I would have hand-picked him myself. Also, thank you for being so determined to keep our family together. You were right about Kel needing to be with you. Thank you for helping me see that. And remember when things get touch for him, please teach him how to stop caring pumpkins... I love you both and with you a lifetime of happiness together. -Julia "And all around my memories, you dance..." ~The Avett Brothers

Thank you to those men and women who put self aside because they held the thought of us on the inside. So, whether that be the bloodied beaches on D-Day or any number of other battles remembered or forgotten, we now hold you on the inside and we say “thank you.

I shall remain thankful to you for the tenderness of your arms that held me when I wept onto your shoulder, and that held me throughout that winter, after every bicycle accident and every B minus. I discovered Bulbul that you could make everything all right, by blowing softly over scraped knees… but one such winter day, by which time our childhood heroes had become older men with ordinary problems, I might’ve confessed to being in love with you and you, in a moment of ruthless propriety, had pretended not to hear.’ ('Left from Dhakeshwari')

Much better," I said calmly. "Much better, I thank you, Dr. John." For, reader, this tall young man - this darling son - this host of mine - this Graham Bretton, was Dr. John: he, and no other; and, what is more, I ascertained this identity scarcely with surprise. What is more, when I heard Graham's step on the stairs, I knew what manner of figure would enter, and for whose aspect to prepare my eyes. The discovery was not of to-day, its dawn had penetrated my perceptions long since. Of course I remembered young Bretton well; and though ten years (from sixteen to twenty-six) may greatly change the boy as they mature him to the man, yet they could bring no such utter difference as would suffice wholly to blind my eyes, or baffle my memory. Dr. John Graham Bretton retained still an affinity to the youth of sixteen.

Senor sempere and I were friends for almost forty years, and in all that time we spoke about God and the mysteries of life on only one occasion. Almost nobody knows this, but Sempere had not set foot in a church since the funeral of his wife Diana, to whose side we bring him today so that they might lie next to one another forever. Perhaps for that reason people assumed he was an atheist, but he was truly a man of faith. He believed in his friends, in the truth of things and in something to which he didn't dare put a name or a face because he said as priests that was our job. Senor Sempere believed we are all a part of something, and that when we leave this world our memories and our desires are not lost, but go on to become the memories and desires of those who take our place. He didn't know whether we created God in our own image or whether God created us without quite knowing what he was doing. He believed that God, or whatever brought us here, lives in each of our deeds, in each of our words, and manifests himself in all those things that show us to be more than mere figures of clay. Senor Sempere believed that God lives, to a smaller or greater extent, in books, and that is why he devoted his life to sharing them, to protecting them and to making sure their pages, like our memories and our desires are never lost. He believed, and made me believe it too, that as long as there is one person left in the world who is capable of reading them and experiencing them, a small piece of God, or of life, will remain. I know that my friend would not have liked us to say our farewells to him with prayer and hymns. I know that it would have been enough for him to realsie that his friends, many of whom have come here today to say goodbye, will never forget him. I have no doubt that the Lord, even though old Sempere was not expecting it, will recieve our dear friend at his side, and I know that he will live forever in the hearts of all those who are here today, all those who have discovered the magic of books thanks to him, and all those who, without even knowing him, will one day go through the door of his little bookshop where, as he liked to say, the story has only just begun. May you rest in peace, Sempere, dear friend, and may God give us all the opportunity to honour your memory and feel grateful for the priviledge of having known you.

If it wasn’t for you, I don’t know where I’d be. Thank you for genuinely loving me.   Thank you for showing me That I was loved. Thank you for making me feel wanted. Thank you for guiding me and teaching me. Thank you for our beautiful memories.   You made the difference In my life. You were my only bright spot. My comfort zone. My place of happiness and freedom.   Just thinking about our love Brightens up my day. Flashbacks of us makes My heart happy. You were my favorite person In this entire world. You gave me what so many people Yearn for in life, GENUINE LOVE.

Literature is a vast universality of memory that is understood not at all but that is manifestly potent. One is translated these days into 12 or 14 languages, not because we possess any secrets of happiness or success but for matters that seem quite inconsequential. Not very long ago in a little mountain village in Bulgaria, a complete stranger embraced me and exclaimed in a jumble of languages: "How can I thank you for your memorable description of the thrill of watching autumn leaves stream through the beam of a car's headlights." Thus may we live happily with one another.

On Mancreu he had no platoon to look after. Brighton House was vast and empty. There were two ballrooms in the east wing, both dim and sheeted. On his third day he had unwrapped a leather armchair in one of the drawing rooms so that he could sit, and discovered over those early weeks that he rather liked the quiet. In fact, he could spend ages in it. He had found it hard at first to listen without tracking things, without placing them and knowing them for friend or enemy, but gradually that automatic classification had faded away and he was left with rustling leaves and waves and a cowbell somewhere far off, and the idling of a fisherman’s outboard in the choppy water beneath the cliff. He walked the endless corridors on the upper floors alone, wondering what the rooms had seen. There was a local bird with a quite infuriating cry like a sneeze, and he amused himself by saying “bless you” whenever he heard it. Occasionally he thanked himself on behalf of the bird. After a while he found that he could forget the clock and even dismiss memory and awareness almost entirely, fade into the scenery and let his senses be everything that there was of him. It was wonderful.

Marathon In 490 B.C., a Greek messenger named Pheidippides ran twenty-six miles, from Marathon to Athens, to bring the senate news of a battle. He died from exhaustion, but his memory lives on thanks to the “marathon,” a twenty-six-mile footrace named in his honor. I thought it would be neat to bring Pheidippides to a modern-day marathon and talk to him about his awesome legacy.   ME: So, Pheidippides: What was it like to run the first “marathon”? PHEIDIPPIDES: It was the worst experience of my life. ME: How did it come about? PHEIDIPPIDES: My general gave the order. I begged him, “Please, don’t make me do this.” But he hardened his heart and told me, “You must.” And so I ran the distance, and it caused my death. ME: How did you feel when you finally reached your destination? PHEIDIPPIDES: I was already on the brink of death when I entered the senate hall. I could actually feel my life slipping away. So I recited my simple message, and then, with my final breath, I prayed to the gods that no human being, be he Greek or Persian, would ever again have to experience so horrible an ordeal. ME: Hey, here come the runners! Wooooh! PHEIDIPPIDES: Who are these people? Where are they going? ME: From one end of New York to the other. It’s a twenty-six-mile distance. Sound familiar? PHEIDIPPIDES: What message do they carry…and to whom? ME: Oh, they’re not messengers. PHEIDIPPIDES: But then…who has forced them to do this? ME: No one. It’s like, you know, a way of testing yourself. PHEIDIPPIDES: But surely, a general or king has said to them, “You must do this. Do this or you will be killed.” ME: No, they just signed up. Hey, look at that old guy with the beard! Pretty inspiring, huh? Still shuffling around after all these years. PHEIDIPPIDES: We must rescue that man. We must save his life. ME: Oh, he knows what he’s doing. He probably runs this thing every year. PHEIDIPPIDES: Is he…under a curse? ME: No.

Carrie, Sheila, Sandy, Michael, my beloved husband and my family…I have been in a place for six incredible years where winning meant a crust of bread and to live another day. Since the blessed day of my liberation I have asked the question, ‘Why am I here? I am no better.’ In my mind’s eye I see those years and faces of those who never lived to see the magic of a boring evening at home. On their behalf I wish to thank you for honoring their memory, and you cannot do that in a better way than when you return to your homes tonight to realize that each of you who knows the joy of freedom are winners. Thank you on their behalf with all my heart.

I have lived a big life. For that I am grateful. But as one disengages from it and grows more reflective and less involved in the day-to-day grind, I think it’s possible to discover wisdom, born of experience and thankfulness. You must “ swallow the shadow” i.e. the fear of death. You must let go of the image of the fit-body and the triumph of your ego-place in the overculture. I think, if you can do that, this “good age” as I like to call it, can be full of radiant inspiration and tender memory. For in all it’s contradiction, somewhere, in the puzzle of life, is incredible beauty. And who does not want to know beauty through their remembering?

On a sleepy morning that I keep waking up to pull my necktie tight And when I pass through my classroom door I can start walking with my chest puffed out just a little The wind blows through such ordinary days I realized I heard it I realized I felt it Now in my chest that started to tremble I realized it was coming already I saw off The millions of stars that were disappearing I waved my hand Saying, "Good for you" I look down at the corner of the hallway in middle of cleaning I think it's a strange thing Even though the time inside of me has stopped It feels like I'm living through different days Dust falls and accumulates like snow I realized you're waiting I realized you're calling Now in this time that started to tremble I realized I found it My lost memories recalled My story Of eternity It's ending I started running before I knew it My hand was being pulled along by you Yesterday was far away, tomorrow was right ahead That natural fact made my heart dance I realized I heard it I realized I felt it Now in my chest that started to tremble I realized it was coming already A new sun overcame thousands of mornings I realized you're waiting I realized you're calling My soul is trembling I realized I found it I saw off The day that's able to disappear like millions of dreams I waved my hand Saying, "Thank you

My husband, Eric, has a joke he likes to say: “Ask Jessica to sing about Jesus or America, and she’ll be there. Super Bowl, backyard cookout, whatever you got, she’s coming to sing ‘God Bless America.’ ” And he’s right. Growing up in Texas, I sang that song over and over. From Memorial Day parades to Veteran’s Day pancake breakfasts—I was your girl. When I sang it at the East Room of the White House, I finally found out I had been flubbing the lyrics all those years. I was there to kick off the USO holiday tour for troops fighting in Afghanistan. It was the first time they let celebrities in after 9/11, because, well, they were busy. It was surreal to hear President Bush speak, thanking the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for his service, the transportation secretary for keeping the airlines safe. And then he added, “I want to thank Rob Schneider and Jessica Simpson as well.” They asked me to sing “God Bless America,” and I gave it my all. President Bush was in the front row, right next to Laura, and I watched him quietly sing along, his mouth moving along with mine. Something went wrong after we got to the mountains, though. I said, “to the rivers,” just like I always did, and, well, he knew it was “the prairies.” I was so embarrassed that I apologized to him and Mrs. Bush after. “I swear all this time I thought it was rivers!” I said. “That’s okay, Jessica,” he said. “God blessed the rivers, too.

I would like nothing better than to see you die, Mr. McKinney. However, this is the time to begin the healing process. To show mercy to someone who refused to show any mercy. Mr. McKinney, I am going to grant you life, as hard as it is for me to do so, because of Matthew. Every time you celebrate Christmas, a birthday, the fourth of July, remember that Matt isn't. Every time you wake up in your prison cell, remember that you had the opportunity and the ability to stop your actions that night. You robbed me of something very precious. and I will never forgive you for that. Mr. McKinney, I give you life in the memory of the one who no longer lives. May you have a long life, and may you thank Matthew every day for it.

But now that I'm older, I realize life isn't a fairy tale. And no matter how much work you put into it, happily ever after doesn't exist." Of all the things his daughter had said so far, this concerned John the most. He took Alex by the hands, sat her at the kitchen table, and had a seat beside her. "Sweetheart, happily ever after does exist, it's just not what you think," he said. "Happily ever after isn't a solution to life's problems or a guarantee that life will be easy; it's a promise we make ourselves to always live our best lives, despite whatever circumstance comes our way. When we focus on joy in times of heartbreak, when we choose to laugh on the days it's hard to smile, and when we count our blessings over our losses - that's what a true happily ever after is all about. You don't get there by being perfect; on the contrary, it's our humanity that guides us. And that's what fairy tales have been trying to teach us all along." "But what about death?" Conner asked. "How do you keep living a happily ever after when you lose someone you love?" "Now you're troubled over something you can't control," John said. "The only power we have over death is how we choose to define it. Personally, when someone dies, I don't believe they cease to exist. The people we love the most will always be alive, thanks to the stories we tell and the memories we share. As long as we keep our loved ones in our hearts, their pulse will continue to beat through our own.

As she looked into all the hopeful but weary eyes of the magical community, Brystal was reminded of her final moments with Madame Weatherberry, and she knew exactly what she wanted to say. "Hello, everyone," she said. "I can only imagine what you've all been through to get here - both in life and on the road. This historic day is possible thanks to a long history of brave men and women making tremendous sacrifices. And although the fight for acceptance and freedom may seem like it's over, our work isn't finished. The world will never be a better place for us until we make it a better place for all. And no matter what challenges await us, no matter whose favor we've yet to earn, we cannot allow anyone's hate to rob us of our compassion or dampen our ambition along the way." "The truth is," Brystal continued, "there will always be a fight, there will always be bridges to cross and stones to turn, but we must never forfeit our joy to the times we live in. When we surrender our ability to be happy, we become as flawed as the battles we face. And too many lives have already been lost for us to lose sight of what we're fighting for now. So let's honor the people who gave their lives for this moment to happen - let's cherish their memory by living each and every day as freely, as proudly, and as joyfully as they would have wanted us to. Together let's begin a new chapter for our community, so when they tell our story years in the future, the tale of magic has a happy and prosperous ending.

Do not harden yourself to what has affected you so deeply in life. This is the important part. Be thankful for it. Be thankful for the songs you hear that make your soul bubble over with nostalgia. Be thankful for the morning light and how it hits that one spot on your bed that holds the ghosted memory of someone who was once your favorite thing. Be thankful for your heart and how at one point, you could feel it beating against your rib cage for ten days straight because your bones were blushing at the thought of someone’s hand within yours. Let these moments seek refuge in your soul. Let them wash over you. Let them remind you that at one point, you embraced what it meant to love without abandon. Let them remind you that at one point, you tried for something.

The lady is ninety-two years old, petite, well poised, and proud. She is fully dressed each morning by eight o’clock, with her hair fashionably coiffed and her makeup perfectly applied, in spite of the fact that she is legally blind. Today she has moved to a nursing home. Her husband of seventy years recently passed away, making this move necessary. After many hours of waiting patiently in the lobby of the nursing home, she smiles sweetly when told her room was ready. As she maneuvers her walker to the elevator, the staff person provides a visual description of her tiny room, including the eyelet curtains that have been hung on her window. “I love it,” she states with the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old having just been presented with a new puppy. “Mrs. Jones, you haven’t seen the room… just wait,” the staff person says. Then Mrs. Jones speaks these words: “That does not have anything to do with it,” she gently replies. “Happiness is something you decide on ahead of time. Whether I like the room or not does not depend on how the furniture is arranged. It is how I arrange my mind that matters. I have already decided to love it. It is a decision I make every morning when I wake up. I have a choice. I can spend the day in bed recounting the difficulty I have with the parts of my body that no longer work, or I can get out of bed and be thankful for the ones that do work. Each day is a gift, and as long as my eyes open, I will focus on the new day and all of the happy memories I have stored away… just for this time in my life.

Your character and soul, intelligence and creativity, love and experiences, goodness and talents, your bright and lovely self are entwined with your body, and she has delivered the whole of you to this very day. What a partner! She has been a home for your smartest ideas, your triumphant spirit, your best jokes. You haven’t gotten anywhere you’ve ever gone without her. She has served you well. Your body walked with you all the way through childhood—climbed the trees and rode the bikes and danced the ballet steps and walked you into the first day of high school. How else would you have learned to love the smell of brownies, toasted bagels, onions and garlic sizzling in olive oil? Your body perfectly delivered the sounds of Stevie Wonder, Whitney Houston, and Bon Jovi right into your memories. She gave you your first kiss, which you felt on your lips and in your stomach, a coordinated body venture. She drove you to college and hiked the Grand Canyon. She might have carried your backpack through Europe and fed you croissants. She watched Steel Magnolias and knew right when to let the tears fall. Maybe your body walked you down the aisle and kissed your person and made promises and threw flowers. Your body carried you into your first big interview and nailed it—calmed you down, smiled charmingly, delivered the right words. Sex? That is some of your body’s best work. Your body might have incubated, nourished, and delivered a whole new human life, maybe even two or three. She is how you cherish the smell of those babies, the feel of their cheeks, the sound of them calling your name. How else are you going to taste deep-dish pizza and French onion soup? You have your body to thank for every good thing you have ever experienced. She has been so good to you. And to others. Your body delivered you to people who needed you the exact moment you showed up. She kissed away little tears and patched up skinned knees. She holds hands that need holding and hugs necks that need hugging. Your body nurtures minds and souls with her presence. With her lovely eyes, she looks deliberately at people who so deeply need to be seen. She nourishes folks with food, stirring and dicing and roasting and baking. Your body has sat quietly with sad, sick, and suffering friends. She has also wrapped gifts and sent cards and sung celebration songs to cheer people on. Her face has been a comfort. Her hands will be remembered fondly—how they looked, how they loved. Her specific smell will still be remembered in seventy years. Her voice is the sound of home. You may hate her, but no one else does.

For the poverty in which my mother and father lived, for the failure of the mill, all the hard times, for the awful sheep, for constant tiredness, thank you, my God! For lips, which I was feeding too much, for the dirty noses of the children, for the guarded sheep, I thank you! Thank you, my God, for the prosecutor and the police commissioner, for the policemen, and for the harsh words of Father Peyramale! For the days in which you came, Mary, for the ones in which you did not come, I will never be able to thank you…only in Paradise. For the slap in the face, for the ridicule, the insults, and for those who suspected me for wanting to gain something from it, thank you, my Lady. For my spelling, which I never learned, for the memory that I never had, for my ignorance and for my stupidity, thank you. For the fact that my mother died so far away, for the pain I felt when my father instead of hugging his little Bernadette called me, “Sister Marie-Bernard”, I thank you, Jesus. I thank you for the heart you gave me, so delicate and sensitive, which you filled with bitterness. For the fact that Mother Josephine proclaimed that I was good for nothing, thank you. For the sarcasm of the Mother Superior: her harsh voice, her injustices, her irony and for the bread of humiliation, thank you. Thank you that I was the privileged one when it came to be reprimanded, so that my sisters said, “How lucky it is not to be Bernadette.” Thank you for the fact that it is me, who was the Bernadette threatened with imprisonment because she had seen you, Holy Virgin; regarded by people as a rare animal; that Bernadette so wretched, that upon seeing her, it was said, “Is that it?” For this miserable body which you gave me, for this burning and suffocating illness, for my decaying tissues, for my de-calcified bones, for my sweats, for my fever, for my dullness and for my acute pains, thank you, my God. And for this soul which you have given me, for the desert of inner dryness, for your night and your lightening, for your silences and your thunders, for everything. For you - when you were present and when you were not—thank you, Jesus.

Tell me, Legolas, why did I come on this Quest? Little did I know where the chief peril lay! Truly Elrond spoke, saying that we could not foresee what we might meet upon our road. Torment in the dark was the danger that O feared, and it did not hold me back. But I would not have come, had I known the danger of light and joy. Now I have taken my worst wound in this parting, even if I were to go this night straight to the Dark Lord. Alas for Gimli son of Gloin! Nay said Legolas. Alas for us all! And for all that walk the world in these after-days, For such is the way of it: to find and lose, as it seems to those whose boat is on the running stream. But I count you blessed, Gimli son of Gloin: for your loss you suffer of your own free will, and you might have chosen otherwise. But you have not forsaken your companions, and the least reward that you shall have is that the memory of Lothlorien shall remain ever clear and unstained in your heart, and shall neither fade nor grow stale. Maybe, said Gimli; and I thank you for your words. True words doubtless; yet all such comfort is cold. Memory is not what the heart desires. That is only a mirror, be it clear as Kheled-zaram. Or so says the heart of Gimli.

Ten days later I was amazed to receive a letter from Diana written just days after she’d arrived home--in fact, before I’d written her a thank-you letter. I was mortified by my delay in writing to her. I had managed to fire off proper thank-you notes to Ambassador Wight and Ms. Gillett, but I had so much more to say to Diana. Her letter was the most heartwarming one I have ever received--even more so, now that I know what personal strain she was under then. After thanking us “a million times” for coming to see them in Washington, she wrote, “From the beginning to the end I had a lump in my throat looking at what a special little man Patrick had grown up to be--Goodness, you must be extremely proud of him and if either of my boys turn out like Patrick I will have no worries and I really mean every word.” I had a lump in my throat as I read this. I was very proud of Patrick and deeply touched by Diana’s praise. Diana added that, for her, the high point of the visit to Washington was seeing Patrick and me. She explained, “Being able to get in touch with a v. happy and memorable part of my past meant a tremendous amount to me and kept me going for days!” Seeing the world-famous Diana in such a warm and personal way after five years and realizing how much she still cherished our friendship kept me going for months, even years!

she whipped around and placed the bouquet in my hand. Looking at her crazy, I tried to hand it back but, instead, she forcefully turned me around. On his knees, there was Hood with his hand extended with a beautiful diamond ring. Dropping the flowers, tears immediately formed in my eyes as I realized what was going on. Looking around the room, I saw both my mother and father nod their heads in approval and all of our family in friends either smiling or shedding happy tears. I looked back to Hood, who was nervously smiling before he began to speak. “Rhythm, from day one, my heart’s tune changed into a beat that only you could hear. You know we’ve had our ups and we’ve had our downs, but baby, none of it would have been worth it if it was not for you. The love we share is so rare that I make sure to pray twice a day that the Lord sees fit for me to have you and hold you for the rest of my life. Baby, you a nigga heartbeat, will you be my wife?” Pausing for a moment, all the good and bad flashed through my memory before I was able to answer. I guess I was taking too long because someone in the audience yelled out, “Girl, you better tell that fine ass man yes!” and everyone started to laugh. “Yes, Hood, yes!” I yelled, as he slipped the beautiful ring on my finger before standing and grabbing me in a tight hug. Our lips locked in a passionate kiss as everyone clapped and whistled, congratulating us. “Congrats the two of you.” I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder after Hood and I let go of each other. “Thanks

some older people who need to sit down, Barb. We can’t put chairs out. I don’t want them to get too comfy or we’ll never get rid of them.’ ‘Oh, you’re being ridiculous.’ Henry is thinking that this is a fine time to call him ridiculous. He never wanted the stupid vigil. In bed last night they had another spit-whispered row about it. We could have it at the front of the house, Barbara had said when the vicar called by. Henry had quite explicitly said he would not support anything churchy – anything that would feel like a memorial service. But the vicar had said the idea of a vigil was exactly the opposite. That the community would like to show that they have not given up. That they continue to support the family. To pray for Anna’s safe return. Barbara was delighted and it was all agreed. A small event at the house. People would walk from the village, or park on the industrial estate and walk up the drive. ‘This was your idea, Barbara.’ ‘The vicar’s, actually. People just want to show support. That is what this is about.’ ‘This is ghoulish, Barb. That’s what this is.’ He moves the tractor across the yard again, depositing two more bales of straw alongside the others. ‘There. That should be enough.’ Henry looks across at his wife and is struck by the familiar contradiction. Wondering how on earth they got here. Not just since Anna disappeared, but across the twenty-two years of their marriage. He wonders if all marriages end up like this. Or if he is simply a bad man. For as Barbara sweeps her hair behind her ear and tilts up her chin, Henry can still see the full lips, perfect teeth and high cheekbones that once made him feel so very differently. It’s a pendulum that still confuses him, makes him wish he could rewind. To go back to the Young Farmers’ ball, when she smelled so divine and everything seemed so easy and hopeful. And he is wishing, yes, that he could go back and have another run. Make a better job of it. All of it. Then he closes his eyes. The echo again of Anna’s voice next to him in the car. You disgust me, Dad. He wants the voice to stop. To be quiet. Wants to rewind yet again. To when Anna was little and loved him, collected posies on Primrose Lane. To when he was her hero and she wanted to race him back to the house for tea. Barbara is now looking across the yard to the brazier. ‘You’re going to light a fire, Henry?’ ‘It will be cold. Yes.’ ‘Thank you. I’m doing soup in mugs, too.’ A pause then. ‘You really think this is a mistake, Henry? I didn’t realise it would upset you quite so much. I’m sorry.’ ‘It’s OK, Barbara. Let’s just make the best of it now.’ He slams the tractor into reverse and moves it out of the yard and back into its position inside the barn. There, in the semi-darkness, his heartbeat finally begins to settle and he sits very still on the tractor, needing the quiet, the stillness. It was their reserve position, to have the vigil under cover in this barn, if the weather was bad. But it has been a fine day. Cold but with a clear, bright sky, so they will stay out of doors. Yes. Henry rather hopes the cold will drive everyone home sooner, soup or no soup. And now he thinks he will sit here for a while longer, actually. Yes. It’s nice here alone in the barn. He finds

John Doerr, the legendary venture capitalist who backed Netscape, Google, and Amazon, doesn’t remember the exact day anymore; all he remembers is that it was shortly before Steve Jobs took the stage at the Moscone Center in San Francisco on January 9, 2007, to announce that Apple had reinvented the mobile phone. Doerr will never forget, though, the moment he first laid eyes on that phone. He and Jobs, his friend and neighbor, were watching a soccer match that Jobs’s daughter was playing in at a school near their homes in Palo Alto. As play dragged on, Jobs told Doerr that he wanted to show him something. “Steve reached into the top pocket of his jeans and pulled out the first iPhone,” Doerr recalled for me, “and he said, ‘John, this device nearly broke the company. It is the hardest thing we’ve ever done.’ So I asked for the specs. Steve said that it had five radios in different bands, it had so much processing power, so much RAM [random access memory], and so many gigabits of flash memory. I had never heard of so much flash memory in such a small device. He also said it had no buttons—it would use software to do everything—and that in one device ‘we will have the world’s best media player, world’s best telephone, and world’s best way to get to the Web—all three in one.’” Doerr immediately volunteered to start a fund that would support creation of applications for this device by third-party developers, but Jobs wasn’t interested at the time. He didn’t want outsiders messing with his elegant phone. Apple would do the apps. A year later, though, he changed his mind; that fund was launched, and the mobile phone app industry exploded. The moment that Steve Jobs introduced the iPhone turns out to have been a pivotal junction in the history of technology—and the world.

Her eyes were closed so tightly that you could see her long-curled eyelashes pointed skyward, in her baby blue coffin. She was an angel to look at even at that moment. I knew that she was looking over all of us! In addition to that, she was most likely looking at him and holding his hands with her spiritual touch, I could just feel it. He said that he felt the breeze of her presents. He was crying hysterically from his hazel almost jade green eyes! I remember he said that he was secretly in love with Jaylynn back to when she was a little girl. That he never got the chance to say that to her in person. I remember him placing one pink daisy in her box on top of her small, yet perky upward-facing breasts next to her motionless heart; with the bloom under her chin and her slight smile. Along with that, then he slid an engraved promise ring on her finger as well; at that moment… one of his teardrops fell from his eyes on her petite hand, as he was holding it… not wanting to ever let go of her. That is love… if I ever did see it. Greg also whispered to me, that he never even got to kiss her as he always hoped to do, and that she was everything that he was looking for in a girl. Furthermore, he would never look for anyone else. That she was the one, and the only! The only thing I could say was; I thank you and follow your heart, and she will be watching over you. Then he walked away… I never saw him again after that. You know I don't even know his last name. Still, I will always remember his face, and the look that was upon it that day, he was devastated. So, someone did care about her, someone truly loved her, and adored her, and it was taken away from him too. Why! Why oh God, why? Why didn’t she see this when she was alive? ‘Why is a question that has no answers, only just more unanswered questions?

The only point that everyone I spoke with in Rome agrees upon is that Armando al Pantheon is one of the city's last true trattorie. Given the location, Claudio and his family could have gone the way of the rest of the neighborhood a long time ago and mailed it in with a handful of fresh mozzarella and prosciutto. But he's chosen the opposite path, an unwavering dedication to the details- the extra steps that make the oxtail more succulent, the pasta more perfectly toothsome, the artichokes and favas and squash blossoms more poetic in their expression of the Roman seasons. "I experiment in my own small ways. I want to make something new, but I also want my guests to think of their mothers and grandmothers. I want them to taste their infancy, to taste their memories. Like that great scene in Ratatouille." I didn't grow up on amatriciana and offal, but when I eat them here, they taste like a memory I never knew I had. I keep coming back. For the cacio e pepe, which sings that salty-spicy duet with unrivaled clarity, thanks to the depth charge of toasted Malaysian peppercorns Claudio employs. For his coda alla vaccinara, as Roman as the Colosseum, a masterpiece of quinto quarto cookery: the oxtail cooked to the point of collapse, bathed in a tomato sauce with a gentle green undertow of celery, one of Rome's unsung heroes. For the vegetables: one day a crostini of stewed favas and pork cheek, the next a tumble of bitter puntarelle greens bound in a bracing anchovy vinaigrette. And always the artichokes. If Roman artichokes are drugs, Claudio's are pure poppy, a vegetable so deeply addictive that I find myself thinking about it at the most inappropriate times. Whether fried into a crisp, juicy flower or braised into tender, melting submission, it makes you wonder what the rest of the world is doing with their thistles.

Sophie Windham, put that child down and come here.” “You are forever telling me to come here,” she replied, but she put the baby on the floor amid his blankets. “And now I am going away, so humor me.” He held out his arms, and she went into his embrace. “I will not forget you, Sophie. These few days with you and Kit have been my true Christmas.” “I will worry about you.” She held on to him, though not as tightly as she wanted to. “I will keep you in my prayers, as well, but, Sophie, I’ve traveled the world for years and come to no harm. A London snowstorm will not be the end of me.” Still, she did not step back. A lump was trying to form in her throat, much like the lumps that formed when she’d seen Devlin or Bart off after a winter leave. She felt his chin resting on her crown, felt her heart threatening to break in her chest. “I must go to Kent,” he said, his hands moving over her back. “I truly do not want to go—Kent holds nothing but difficult memories for me—but I must. This interlude with you…” She hardly paid attention to his words, focusing instead on his touch, on the sound of his voice, on the clean bergamot scent of him, the warmth he exuded that seeped into her bones like no hearth fire ever had. “…Now let me say good-bye to My Lord Baby.” He did not step back but rather waited until Sophie located the resolve to move away from him. This took a few moments, and yet he did not hurry her. “Say good-bye to Mr. Charpentier, Kit.” She passed him the baby, who gurgled happily in Vim’s arms. “You, sir, will be a good baby for Miss Sophie. None of that naughty baby business—you will remain healthy, you will begin to speak with the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ you will take every bath Miss Sophie directs you to take, you will not curse in front of ladies, nor will you go romping where you’re not safe. Do you understand me?” “Bah!” “Miss Sophie, you’re going to be raising a hellion.

Here you go,” Ryder says, startling me. He holds out a sweating bottle of water, and I take it gratefully, pressing it against my neck. “Thanks.” I glance away, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me in peace. His presence makes me self-conscious now, but it wasn’t always like this. As I look out at Magnolia Landing’s grounds, I can’t help but remember hot summer days when Ryder and I ran through sprinklers and ate Popsicles out on the lawn, when we rode our bikes up and down the long drive, when we built a tree fort in the largest of the oaks behind the house. I wouldn’t say we’d been friends when we were kids--not exactly. We had been more like siblings. We played; we fought. Mostly, we didn’t think too much about our relationship--we didn’t try to define it. And then adolescence hit. Just like that, everything was awkward and uncomfortable between us. By the time middle school began, I was all too aware that he wasn’t my brother, or even my cousin. “Mind if I sit?” Ryder asks. I shrug. “It’s your house.” I keep my gaze trained straight ahead, refusing to look in his direction as he lowers himself into the chair beside me. After a minute or two of silence but for the creaking rockers, he sighs loudly. “Can we call a truce now?” “You’re the one who started it,” I snap. “Last night, I mean.” “Look, I’ve been thinking about what you said. You know, about eighth grade--” “Do we have to talk about this?” “Because we didn’t really hang out in middle school, except for family stuff,” he continues, ignoring my protest. “Until the end of eighth grade, maybe. Right around graduation.” My entire body goes rigid, my face flushing hotly with the memory. It had all started during Christmas break that year. We’d gone to the beach with the Marsdens. I can’t really explain it, but there’d been a new awareness between us that week--exchanged glances and lingering looks, an electrical current connecting us in some way. The two of us sort of tiptoed around each other, afraid to get too close, but also afraid to lose that hint of…something. And then Ryder asked me to go with him to the graduation dance. There was no way we were telling our parents.

After I returned from that morning, our telephone rang incessantly with requests for interviews and photos. By midafternoon I was exhausted. At four o’clock I was reaching to disconnect the telephone when I answered one last call. Thank heavens I did! I heard, “Mrs. Robertson? This is Ian Hamilton from the Lord Chamberlain’s office.” I held my breath and prayed, “Please let this be the palace.” He continued: “We would like to invite you, your husband, and your son to attend the funeral of the Princess of Wales on Saturday in London.” I was speechless. I could feel my heart thumping. I never thought to ask him how our name had been selected. Later, in London, I learned that the Spencer family had given instructions to review Diana’s personal records, including her Christmas-card list, with the help of her closest aides. “Yes, of course, we absolutely want to attend,” I answered without hesitating. “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I’ll have to make travel plans on very short notice, so may I call you back to confirm? How late can I reach you?” He replied, “Anytime. We’re working twenty-four hours a day. But I need your reply within an hour.” I jotted down his telephone and fax numbers and set about making travel arrangements. My husband had just walked in the door, so we were able to discuss who would travel and how. Both children’s passports had expired and could not be renewed in less than a day from the suburbs where we live. Caroline, our daughter, was starting at a new school the very next day. Pat felt he needed to stay home with her. “Besides,” he said, “I cried at the wedding. I’d never make it through the funeral.” Though I dreaded the prospect of coping with the heartbreak of the funeral on my own, I felt I had to be there at the end, no matter what. We had been with Diana at the very beginning of the courtship. We had attended her wedding with tremendous joy. We had kept in touch ever since. I had to say good-bye to her in person. I said to Pat, “We were there for the ‘wedding of the century.’ This will be ‘the funeral of the century.’ Yes, I have to go.” Then we just looked at each other. We couldn’t find any words to express the sorrow we both felt.

Dear Dex, We’ve been meaning to write you this letter for months, and I’m sorry it took us so long. We could never quite figure out the right words to say to you, because words are simply not enough to express to you just how grateful we are to you. Not many people are lucky enough to experience the kind of friendship that you and Teddy had. You were only little kids when you met, but the bond you formed was something special. From then on, it was you and Teddy against the world. The greatest kind of friends are the ones who bring out the best in one another, and that’s what you and Teddy did every day. You made each other stronger, wiser and braver, and you learned from each other. Most importantly, you stood by each other, right until the very end. We are eternally grateful to you for being there by his side in his final moments. For holding his hand and letting him know that he wasn’t alone and that, even in death, someone he loved was there with him. We take comfort in knowing that he didn’t leave this world alone. There’s no doubt in our minds that you did everything you could to try and save him, Dex. We know that there’s nothing you could have done differently, and we can only hope that you know it too. Not everyone can be saved – sometimes God has a greater purpose for the ones we love, and we must fight through the pain and learn to accept that they are somewhere far better than here. We know that you miss him, and we miss him too… every single day. But with each day that passes, it becomes a little bit easier. Some days are harder than others, but our frowns no longer outweigh our smiles. We no longer cry when we see his pictures around the house, and memories of him no longer bring pain to our hearts, but instead put a smile on our faces as we remember who he was. We all must honor his memory by focusing on what we gained by having him in our lives, rather than on what we lost when he passed. It’s what he would have wanted for all of us. Teddy loved life. He reveled in the simple things, and he saw a positive light in even the worst situations. He would never want his death to bring you sadness or to rob you of the joys of life. He would want you to remember the good times and focus on the memories of him that make you smile – because he is someone who could make anyone smile! You have such a big heart, Dex, and because of that you’ve always felt things a little bit stronger and more deeply than everyone else. Don’t let your grief weigh you down. Don’t carry the burden of your loss with you forever. Our scars become a part of us, but you cannot let them define you. We will carry him with us in our hearts forever, and moving on does not mean that we’re forgetting him or leaving him behind. It means choosing to live. Thank you for being a part of our son’s life. Of our lives. You brought so much joy and laughter to his time here on this earth, and we will forever cherish those moments. Take solace in your memories of him, do not let them bring you pain. Teddy loved you so much, and he always will. So will we.

Naturally, without intending to, I transitioned from these dreams in which I healed myself to some in which I cared for others: I am flying over the Champs-Élysées Avenue in Paris. Below me, thousands of people are marching, demanding world peace. They carry a cardboard dove a kilometer long with its wings and chest stained with blood. I begin to circle around them to get their attention. The people, astonished, point up at me, seeing me levitate. Then I ask them to join hands and form a chain so that they can fly with me. I gently take one hand and lift. The others, still holding hands, also rise up. I fly through the air, drawing beautiful figures with this human chain. The cardboard dove follows us. Its bloodstains have vanished. I wake up with the feeling of peace and joy that comes from good dreams. Three days later, while walking with my children along the Champs-Élysées Avenue, I saw an elderly gentleman under the trees near the obelisk whose entire body was covered by sparrows. He was sitting completely still on one of the metal benches put there by the city council with his hand outstretched, holding out a piece of cake. There were birds flitting around tearing off crumbs while others waited their turn, lovingly perched on his head, his shoulders, his legs. There were hundreds of birds. I was surprised to see tourists passing by without paying much attention to what I considered a miracle. Unable to contain my curiosity, I approached the old man. As soon as I got within a couple of meters of him, all the sparrows flew away to take refuge in the tree branches. “Excuse me,” I said, “how does this happen?” The gentleman answered me amiably. “I come here every year at this time of the season. The birds know me. They pass on the memory of my person through their generations. I make the cake that I offer. I know what they like and what ingredients to use. The arm and hand must be still and the wrist tilted so that they can clearly see the food. And then, when they come, stop thinking and love them very much. Would you like to try?” I asked my children to sit and wait on a nearby bench. I took the piece of cake, reached my hand out, and stood still. No sparrow dared approach. The kind old man stood beside me and took my hand. Immediately, some of the birds came and landed on my head, shoulders, and arm, while others pecked at the treat. The gentleman let go of me. Immediately the birds fled. He took my hand and asked me to take my son’s hand, and he another hand, so that my children formed a chain. We did. The birds returned and perched fearlessly on our bodies. Every time the old man let go of us, the sparrows fled. I realized that for the birds when their benefactor, full of goodness, took us by the hand, we became part of him. When he let go of us, we went back to being ourselves, frightening humans. I did not want to disrupt the work of this saintly man any longer. I offered him money. He absolutely would not accept. I never saw him again. Thanks to him, I understood certain passages of the Gospels: Jesus blesses children without uttering any prayer, just by putting his hands on them (Matthew 19:13–15). In Mark 16:18, the Messiah commands his apostles, “They shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.” St. John the Apostle says mysteriously in his first epistle, 1.1, “That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled, of the Word of life.

If you’d convinced Nancy to marry you, you might not have had to go off to be a Bow Street runner. You could have had an easier life, a better life in high society than you could have had with me if you’d married me. Without being able to access my fortune, I could only have dragged you down.” “You don’t really believe that I wanted to marry her for her money,” he gritted out. “It’s either that or assume that you fell madly in love with her in the few weeks we were apart.” They were nearly to the inn now, so she added a plaintive note to her voice. “Or perhaps it was her you wanted all along. You knew my uncle would never accept a second son as a husband for his rich heiress of a daughter, so you courted me to get close to her. Nancy was always so beautiful, so--” “Enough!” Without warning, he dragged her into one of the many alleyways that crisscrossed York. This one was deeply shadowed, the houses leaning into each other overhead, and as he pulled her around to face him, the brilliance of his eyes shone starkly in the dim light. “I never cared one whit about Nancy.” She tamped down her triumph--he hadn’t admitted the whole truth yet. “It certainly didn’t look that way to me. It looked like you had already forgotten me, forgotten what we meant to each--” “The hell I had.” He shoved his face close to hers. “I never forgot you for one day, one hour, one moment. It was you--always you. Everything I did was for you, damn it. No one else.” The passionate profession threw her off course. Dom had never been the sort to say such sweet things. But the fervent look in his eyes roused memories of how he used to look at her. And his hands gripping her arms, his body angling in closer, were so painfully familiar... “I don’t…believe you,” she lied, her blood running wild through her veins. His gleaming gaze impaled her. “Then believe this.” And suddenly his mouth was on hers. This was not what she’d set out to get from him. But oh, the joy of it. The heat of it. His mouth covered hers, seeking, coaxing. Without breaking the kiss, he pushed her back against the wall, and she grabbed for his shoulders, his surprisingly broad and muscular shoulders. As he sent her plummeting into unfamiliar territory, she held on for dear life. Time rewound to when they were in her uncle’s garden, sneaking a moment alone. But this time there was no hesitation, no fear of being caught. Glorying in that, she slid her hands about his neck to bring him closer. He groaned, and his kiss turned intimate. He used lips and tongue, delving inside her mouth in a tender exploration that stunned her. Enchanted her. Confused her. Something both sweet and alien pooled in her belly, a kind of yearning she’d never felt with Edwin. With any man but Dom. As if he sensed it, he pulled back to look at her, his eyes searching hers, full of surprise. “My God, Jane,” he said hoarsely, turning her name into a prayer. Or a curse? She had no time to figure out which before he clasped her head to hold her for another darkly ravishing kiss. Only this one was greedier, needier. His mouth consumed hers with all the boldness of Viking raiders of yore. His tongue drove repeatedly inside in a rhythm that made her feel all trembly and hot, and his thumbs caressed her throat, rousing the pulse there. Thank heaven there was a wall to hold her up, or she was quite sure she would dissolve into a puddle at his feet. Because after all these years apart, he was riding roughshod over her life again. And she was letting him. How could she not? His scent of leather and bergamot engulfed her, made her dizzy with the pleasure of it. He roused urges she’d never known she had, sparked fires in places she’d thought were frozen. Then his hands swept down her possessively as if to memorize her body…or mark it as belonging to him. Belonging to him.

Montreal October 1704 Temperature 55 degrees Eben was looking at Sarah in the way every girl prays some boy will one day look at her. “I will marry you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I will be a good husband. A Puritan husband. Who will one day take us both back home.” Wind shifted the lace of Sarah’s gown and the auburn of one loose curl. “I love you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I’ve always loved you.” Tears came to Sarah’s eyes: she who had not wept over her own family. She stood as if it had not occurred to her that she could be loved; that an English boy could adore her. “Oh, Eben!” she whispered. “Oh, yes, oh, thank you, I will marry you. But will they let us, Eben? We will need permission.” “I’ll ask my father,” said Eben. “I’ll ask Father Meriel.” They were not touching. They were yearning to touch, they were leaning forward, but they were holding back. Because it is wrong? wondered Mercy. Or because they know they will never get permission? “My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.” Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me.” The Indians rather enjoyed being French allies one day and difficult neighbors the next. Lorette Indians might find this a fine way to stab a French soldier in the back without drawing blood. They would need Father Meriel. He could arrange anything if he chose; he had power among all the peoples. But he might say no, and so might Eben’s Indian family. Mercy translated what was going on for Nistenha and Snow Walker. “They want to get married,” she told them. “Isn’t it wonderful?” She couldn’t help laughing from the joy and the terror of it. Ransom would no longer be the first word in Sarah’s heart. Eben would be. Mercy said, “Eben asked her right here in the street, Snow Walker. He wants to save her from marriage to a French soldier she doesn’t want. He’s loved Sarah since the march.” The two Indians had no reaction. For a moment Mercy thought she must have spoken to them in English. Nistenha turned to walk away and Snow Walker turned with her. If Nistenha was not interested in Sarah and Eben’s plight, no Indian would be. Mercy called on her memory of every speech in every ceremony, every dignified phrase and powerful word. “Honored mother,” she said softly. “Honored sister. We are in need and we beg you to hear our petition.” Nistenha stopped walking, turned back and stared at her in amazement. Sarah and Eben and Snow Walker stared at her in amazement. Sam can build canoes, thought Mercy. I can make a speech. “This woman my sister and this man my brother wish to spend their lives together. My brother will need the generous permission of his Indian father. Already we know that my sister will be refused the permission of her French owners. We will need an ally to support us in our request. We will need your strength and your wisdom. We beseech you, Mother, that you stand by us and help us.” The city of Montreal swirled around them. Eben, property of an Indian father in Lorette; Sarah, property of a French family in Montreal; and Mercy, property of Tannhahorens, awaited her answer. “Your words fill me with pride, Munnunock,” said Nistenha softly. She reached into her shopping bundle. Slowly she drew out a fine French china cup, undoubtedly meant for the feast of Flying Legs. She held it for a moment, and then her stern face softened and she gave it to Eben. Indians sealed a promise with a gift. She would help them. From her bundle, Snow Walker took dangling silver earrings she must have bought for Mercy and handed them to Sarah. Because she knew that Sarah’s Mohawk was not good enough and that Eben was too stirred to speak, Mercy gave the flowery thanks required after such gifts. “God bless us,” she said to Sarah and Eben, and Eben said, “He has.

Calvin, can I speak to my brother in private?" The Admiral looked at Steven, who nodded. He stood and bowed to them before exiting the room. "You need to show a little more respect, Mitch," Steven said. "He's an Admiral in-" "Frig that, Steve. And frig you, too. The Alliance set me up and sold me out, and yet I'm the one still desperately fighting to save our people? Me and a crew of incarcerated soldiers? Grab your crotch and make sure your balls are still there." "Mitch-" "Shut up, Steve. Look, I left out part of my story. When I was on Hell, I entered this virtual world the Tetron call a Construct. Origin left something for me in there. I don't know what it is, but according to it the other Tetron don't know it exists, and it's important enough that it can help us with the war effort." "You don't know what it is?" "No. But I know where it is. They etched the coordinates into my memory." "It altered your memory? Why didn't it implant the memory of what it was?" "Come on, Steve. This is advanced alien tech, how the frig do I know why it works the way it does? The point is, it's out there, and it will help. If Goliath doesn't show, that should be our next move." "Instead of trying to save what's left?" "Yes. If it makes you feel better, you can send a ship out into unexplored space with a few Adam and Eves on it. Let them find a nice planet to land on and frig like bunnies for a few thousand years. We're soldiers. We need to keep fighting. Your wife and daughter are out there." Steven's face twisted. "Don't you think I know that, Mitch? That they're out there, sitting on Earth wondering where I am and thinking that everything is going to be okay? This is bigger than both of us." "It's bigger than you. Not me. I have to be big enough to stop it. That's my fate, or destiny, or bad luck, or whatever the frig you want to call it. And I've never done it! I've never won this war. Humankind dies because of me, over and over again. No pressure, Mitch." Mitchell reached out and grabbed Steven by the shoulders. "I could use a lot of support in this. Especially from my big brother." Steven stared at Mitchell, his lip quivering. "Don't get all emotional on me," Mitchell said. "You're right. I know you're right. We'll fight, even if we die trying. You have my fleet, what little of it is left. We're beat up and out of ammo, but we make good targets." Mitchell laughed. "Thank you."  He gave Steven a short hug and backed away, turning his head to look out the viewport again. There was still no sign of the Goliath. Steven walked over to stand next to Mitchell. The two of them stared out into space. "How long do we wait?" Steven asked. "I don't know. A day?" "A day sounds good." Steven's eyes reached into the darkness.

What were you looking for over here?” Jim asked again. “I wonder if you can exorcise hands…hmm? Oh, where on the wall was that place I sent you through before. Do you remember?” Jim shook its head. “Why are you looking for that particular spot? It have fond memories for you or something?” “Hardly. You told me that it was easier to tear the fabric of existence in a spot where it had previously been rent. And I know I sent you through it from this room, but I don’t remember where, exactly.” I glanced at the clock on the mantel, leaping to my feet when I saw the time. “Oh my god. Oh my god! Tell me that clock isn’t right!” “That clock isn’t right.” Relief made me sag a bit as I dug through my purse looking for my cell phone. “Thank god. I was worried there for a minute that I’d missed the wedding.” “You have,” Jim said complacently, snuffling around behind the fainting couch. “What? You just told me the clock was wrong!” “Yuh-uh. And who ordered me to tell her that?” “Gah!” I screamed, punching a speed-dial number into the phone. “Talk about your day from hell…Jim, look around and find the weak spot. I’m not going to let something like a deranged Guardian ruin my day.” “Sooo many things I could say to that,” Jim said, shaking its head. “I’ll confine myself to pointing out that even if I found the spot, it wouldn’t do you any good.” “It wouldn’t? Why not?” Inside my head, a dark, sinuous voice whistled a peppy little tune. I ground my teeth. “Don’t tell me—I’d have to use the dark power in order to push us through.” “Yup.” Smirk. “Bloody he—Drake!” “Aisling?” I held the phone away from my ear at the sound of Drake’s roar. “Hi, sweetie. Um. I guess we’re even on the whole jilting-at-the-altar thing, huh?” “Where are you? Where have you been? Why have you not answered my calls?” Drake growled. “Rene and your uncle said you just disappeared on the street. Have you been harmed?” “I’m fine. Jim’s here with me. I’m in…er…oh, hell.” “Abaddon,” Jim corrected.

out and started again? Well, she hated cold tea, so she tipped it onto the grass, holding her breath. No complaint, so she began again. ‘Milk?’ Hannah studied him from under her hair. ‘Yes, please, just a small amount. Lapsang is a very delicate tea and too much milk kills the flavour.’ ‘I’ll need lots of milk then.’ Balancing the cup, saucer and spoon carefully, she offered it. ‘Thank you, Miss Hollis.’ ‘Hannah.’ She poured her own tea, wondering if it would taste like the ashtray it smelled like. With cup only in hand, she leaned against the back of the wooden chair then threw a leg over the side arm. ‘So, Miss Hollis, what brings you to Cornwall?’ ‘Call me Hannah. Miss Hollis makes me sound like some old school marm.’ ‘Is that a problem? Most old school marms, as you call them, of my acquaintance are delightful people.’ ‘Sure, but boring I bet.’ ‘Not at all.’ ‘Right. Not to you, maybe.’ Hannah braved a sip and winced. ‘Back to the question: what has brought you to Cornwall?’ ‘Bloody bad luck,’ she said, frowning at her tea. ‘No need to swear,’ he said. ‘I didn’t swear.’ ‘You did,’ he said. ‘What? Are you talking about bloody?’ she asked. ‘Yes. It is a curse.’ ‘No,’ she said. ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, maybe in the dark ages it was, but it isn’t now.’ She began to wonder if she’d walked through a time machine when she’d come through the gate earlier. It was a nice one, though. The orchard was beautifully laid out and the table and chairs were a lovely weathered blue. ‘Who advised you of this?’ he asked. Hannah sat up and put her empty cup on the table, not quite sure when she had drunk it. ‘Look, it’s a word that’s used every day.’ ‘Yes, but does that change its meaning?’ he asked. ‘No, but no one takes it like that any more.’ ‘Who is no one?’ he asked. ‘I mean no one who hasn’t lived in the dark ages.’ She looked at his wrinkled skin and tried to guess his age. ‘You mean anyone over the age of, say, sixty?’ he suggested. ‘Yeah, sort of.’ ‘Well, as I fit that category, could you refrain from using it?’ ‘Yeah, I guess. If it bothers you that much.’ ‘Thank you. Would you be kind enough to pour more tea?’ Old Tom leaned back into his chair. The sun wasn’t coming through the east window when Maddie opened her eyes for the second time that day; instead, she found Mark standing at the end of the bed with a tray. She blinked. When she last peered at the bedside clock, it had been eight a.m. and she’d thought that if she slept for another hour, she would begin to feel human. What a wasted day. What had Hannah been up to? Had she come into the room and seen her like this? Well, it was a lesson in what not to do in life. The end of last night, no, this morning, was more than fuzzy; in fact, she didn’t remember coming up to her room. The last clear memory was saying goodbye to Tamsin and Anthony. She and Mark had gone back into the kitchen and had another glass of wine or two. ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘It’s not that late?’ ‘Almost time for a drink.’ He smiled. She winced. ‘Oh, don’t.’ ‘Would a bit of tea and toast help?’ ‘It might.’ Maddie eased herself onto her elbows and then slipped back down again. She was only wearing knickers. Mark’s eyes widened. ‘Could you hand me that shirt on the end of the bed?’ she asked. ‘Certainly.’ She wrestled with it under the duvet. ‘Sorry. I couldn’t find your pyjamas last night.’ ‘What?’ Maddie

You have consented to time and it is winter. The country seems bigger, for you can see through the bare trees. There are times when the woods is absolutely still and quiet. The house holds warmth. A wet snow comes in the night and covers the ground and clings to the trees, making the whole world white. For a while in the morning the world is perfect and beautiful. You think you will never forget. You think you will never forget any of this, you will remember it always just the way it was. But you can’t remember it the way it was. To know it, you have to be living in the presence of it right as it is happening. It can return only by surprise. Speaking of these things tells you that there are no words for them that are equal to them or that can restore them to your mind. And so you have a life that you are living only now, now and now and now, gone before you can speak of it, and you must be thankful for living day by day, moment by moment, in this presence. But you have a life too that you remember. It stays with you. You have lived a life in the breath and pulse and living light of the present, and your memories of it, remembered now, are of a different life in a different world and time. When you remember the past, you are not remembering it as it was. You are remembering it as it is. It is a vision or a dream, present with you in the

Hunter turned toward her and looped an arm around her waist. His eyes were dark splashes in the moonlight. “Blue Eyes, it will be good. Trust this Comanche.” “How can it be, Hunter?” “I will make it so.” He feathered a finger across her bottom lip. Trust. His voice, his gentle touch, delved deep, turning her warm and liquid, melting her resistance. She closed her eyes. In four more days, maybe less, she would be back in Hunter’s village. “Hunter, why did you tie me to stakes again tonight? How long do you plan to do that?” “Until my touch is carved in your heart.” “Oh, Hunter, it’s already carved in my heart. When I ran from you, it wasn’t out of fear.” “You said hi, hites with a rifle. You will have no fear again. Anger, maybe much hatred, but no fear.” He trailed a knuckle along her cheek. “You made pictures of your remembering. Now I make new rememberings, so they are very much good.” Puzzled, Loretta studied his dark face. Then she realized he was referring to her memories of her mother’s death--the Comanches, the stakes, her torturous last minutes. He was deliberately evoking those memories, only to expunge them by gently loving her. When she thought of his stakes now, she thought of shivers running down her spine, of sweet kisses in moonlight, of wonderfully strong arms enfolding her with warmth. Tears sprang to her eye. “Thank you for the new memories, Hunter. They are very much good.” His face drew close. “This Comanche wants to make more new remembering.” She took a ragged breath. “I can’t. Don’t you see? To say yes is surrendering all that I am.” He manacled her wrists with his iron grip. “That too is why I tie you.” His lips brushed hers, setting her senses afire. “You will make war tomorrow?” He whispered the question into her mouth, his breath warm and sweet. His tongue touched hers. Loretta’s heart caught at the careful way he drew her against him. Tomorrow. It seemed soon enough for fighting him. For tonight, she couldn’t stop herself from loving him--one last time.

He kissed her long and hot, drinking in her taste and scent. Her hands went to his hips, her fingers hooking through the belt loops on his khaki shorts. She pulled him against her, arching her back, the fly of her jeans against his. Josh sucked in a deep breath and finally, reluctantly, lifted his head. “I’m so damned glad to see you.” “I’m so damned glad I got on that bus,” she said, her voice breathless, her smile wide. “I hope you’re planning to stay for a while. Like all day. And night. And then the next. Four or five.” Her eyes widened. “The next four or five days?” He lowered his head, brushing his lips over hers. “I was thinking more like months.” She laughed softly, her breath hot against his mouth. “So everything I remember feeling last year is still here.” “Definitely still here,” he agreed. And stronger. Absence did make the heart grow fonder. He also knew it made memories fade and fantasies grow. But it seemed that neither of those things had happened in regard to Tori. He remembered everything—the freckles on her nose, the length of her eyelashes, the reddish-gold highlights in her hair, the way her laugh punched him in the gut and made him hard as steel. “Thank God,” she said softly. “So that’s a yes to the four or five months?” She laughed again. “Part of me is a very definite yes.” “That’s the part I want.” “Well, I can definitely offer you a chance to hang out with me for a few days.” “Done.” “You don’t even want to know what for?” “Doesn’t matter.” “Wow,” she said again. Josh brushed his thumbs over her cheekbones. “That’s what I was thinking.” She blew out a little breath. “So how do you feel about weddings?” “Are you proposing?

Eva, my love, It’s over. One way or another, everything comes to an end. It’s all over some day. That’s perhaps one of the most fascinating truths we know about the entire universe. The stars die, the galaxies die, the planets die. And people die too. I’ve never been a believer, but the day I became interested in astronomy, I think I put aside all that was left of my fear of death. I’d realized that in comparison to the universe, a human being, a single human being, me … is infinitely small. Well, I’m not writing this letter to deliver a profound religious or philosophical lecture. I’m writing to tell you “farewell.” I was just talking to you on the phone. I can still hear the sound of your voice. I imagine you, before my eyes … a beautiful image, a lovely memory I will keep until the end. At this very moment, reading this letter, you know that I am dead. There are things that I want you to know. As I leave for Africa, I’m aware of what’s waiting for me. I even have the feeling that this trip could bring about my death, but it’s something that I have to experience, in spite of everything. I wasn’t born to sit in an armchair. I’m not like that. Correction: I wasn’t like that … I’m not going to Africa just as a journalist, I’m going above all on a political mission, and that’s why I think this trip might lead to my death. This is the first time I’ve written to you knowing exactly what to say: I love you, I love you, love you, love you. I want you to know that. I want you to know that I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I want you to know I mean that seriously. I want you to remember me but not grieve for me. If I truly mean something to you, and I know that I do, you will probably suffer when you learn I am dead. But if I really mean something to you, don’t suffer, I don’t want that. Don’t forget me, but go on living. Live your life. Pain will fade with time, even if that’s hard to imagine right now. Live in peace, my dearest love; live, love, hate, and keep fighting. … I had a lot of faults, I know, but some good qualities as well, I hope. But you, Eva, you inspired such love in me that I was never able to express it to you. … Straighten up, square your shoulders, hold your head high. Okay? Take care of yourself, Eva. Go have a cup of coffee. It’s over. Thank you for the beautiful times we had. You made me very happy. Adieu. I kiss you goodbye, Eva. From Stieg, with love.

Unspoken appreciations are the saddest kind of verbal abdication. There is only one good thing about them—how easily they disappear. Dislodge one unspoken appreciation from your heart and it will inspire you to share ten more the next day. You can begin them with words like these: I may have never said this, but . . . I was so impressed when . . . I have always admired you because . . . I realize a fault of mine has been . . . I like you. Not just like you but “like you” like you, so . . . I would love to know more about . . . One of my favorite memories is . . . I’ve been meaning to tell you that . . . Thank you so much for the time . . . What’s wonderful about you is . . .

So it is guilt that you are not sadder?" he asks. "That you feel wrong for being happy?" I suspect that's it. That I feel as if I'm betraying their memories by having a good day, or one that doesn't involve crying or aching sadness. I feel guilty that I'm spending so much time with Thrand and that he makes me so happy. "I think so." "That is a difficult thing." Thrand watches me eat. "I would be sad if Vordis was not here with me. At the same time, I think I would wish for him to get over his sadness quickly. Not because I want him to forget me, but because it would grieve me that he would suffer for a long time. Would your sisters want you to be sad?" I take another bite, thinking. "No," I whisper, aching. He's right. Serena, Alexis and Jordan would squeeze me in hugs and tell me that I need to live. They're such driven, strong, successful people that they would want me to take a moment, and then get over the sadness and move on. I don't want them to be sad, either. I want them to think of me with joy, to smile at our memories. My eyes sting with tears, but I feel better than I have in a while. "Thank you, Thrand." He reaches up and cups my cheek. "You are allowed to be sad. Just do not let it take all the happiness, too. Life is meant to be enjoyed.

Remember today that you have lost nothing in all of the leavings of your life. You grow fuller and stronger because of where you have been and who you have loved. You have agreed to these lessons and will meet again. In The Heart: * I now honor the loving memories that I have moved on from in my life. I bless them, I thank them and I carry them with me always.

Tell me, why did it matter to you who won? I mean, even if you’d won, you still could have released me from the bargain. You could have said I didn’t have to spend those two days with you.” “I could have,” he acknowledged. “But after…after you told me about your father, I wanted you to have his horse back. Rava should have had more respect for his memory. She shouldn’t have taken him--them--away.” Tears stung my eyes, and I swallowed several times to loosen my throat. What a stupid reaction. “Thank you,” I murmured, and I felt his hand close around mine, giving it a squeeze. I sighed contentedly, letting myself enjoy the moment. “What was your father like?” “I don’t know,” he said offhandedly. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” As usual, my typical phrasing was somewhat coarse, driven by my curiosity, and I caught myself, adopting a more considerate tone. “Did he die when you were young?” “No, he’s still alive.” I turned my head to gape at him, greatly confused. “He left you?” “No.” “Then what?” I sat up again, close to exasperation; he just looked at me, bemused, my hand still in his. “Father’s don’t raise their children in Cokyri. They aren’t trusted with such an important responsibility. I never knew mine.” This was not an answer I could have foreseen, and I shifted uneasily, trying to figure out how to proceed. “I’m sorry,” I said lamely. He was quiet at first, his eyes fixed on the darkened sky as he pondered our different experiences. “I never felt sorry about it. My mother was a good woman--she and her maidens took care of me. But like I told you before, I had to work harder than you can imagine to achieve my military rank, and only because I’m a man. I can do everything Rava can do. I always could, but no one would see it, not even her. A struggle like that makes you question things.” “So now you wish you’d known your father?” Again, he reflected. “No. I wish I’d known yours.” I looked away, once more fighting tears. I didn’t understand how he could affect me so deeply. “I’m not sure my father would have been to your liking,” I finally said, meeting his eyes. “I found him brave for his willingness to fight, even when there was no more hope. You would probably have found him weak.” He sat up and gazed earnestly at me. “There is a way to accomplish things, but it’s rarely to declare a war, private or otherwise.” “Sometimes the war is not of your making,” I retorted. “You must fight, otherwise you’re a lamb. And lambs are slaughtered, Saadi.” His brows drew together, and we stared at each other for much longer than we should have, and I knew I had rattled him. Then he shook his head. “See those lights up there? They’re called stars.” I laughed. “I can take a hint. We should go back.” We caught and saddled our mounts, then took our time returning to the city, neither of us really wanting the day to end.

A wealthy man and his son loved to collect works of art. They had in their collection works ranging from Picasso to Raphael and Rembrandt. When the Vietnam War broke out, the son was drafted and sent to fight in ’Nam. He was very courageous and died in battle. The father was notified and grieved deeply for his only son. About a month later, a young lad appeared at the door to his house and said, “Sir, you don’t know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life that fateful day. He was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in the heart. He died instantly. He used to often talk about you and your love for art. Here’s something for you,” he added, holding out a package. “It is something that I drew. I know I am not much of an artist, but I wanted you to have this from me as a small measure of memory and thanks.” It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man. It captured the personality of his son. The father’s eyes welled up with tears as he thanked the young man for the painting. He offered to pay for the picture, but the man replied, “Oh! No, sir. I could never repay what your son did for me. It is my gift to you.” The father hung the portrait over his mantel and showed it proudly to all his visitors along with all of the great works of art he possessed. Some time later, the old man died. As decreed in his will, his paintings were all to be auctioned. Many influential and rich people gathered together, excited over the prospect of owning one of the masterpieces. On a platform nearby also sat the painting of his son. The auctioneer pounded his gavel. “Let’s start the bidding with the picture of his son. Who will bid for this picture?” There was silence. A voice shouted from the back, “Let’s skip this one. We want the famous masters.” But the auctioneer persisted. “Ten dollars, twenty dollars, what do I hear?” Another voice came back angrily, “We didn’t come here for this. Let’s have the Picassos, the Matisses, the van Goghs.” Still the auctioneer persisted. “The son. Anyone for the son? Who’ll take the son?” Finally a quavering voice came from the back. It was the longtime gardener of the house. “I’ll take the son for ten dollars. I am sorry, but that’s all I have.” “Ten dollars once, ten dollars twice, anybody for twenty dollars? Sold for ten dollars.” “Now let’s get on with the auction,” said a wealthy art aficionado sitting in the front row. The auctioneer laid down his gavel and spoke. “I am sorry, but the auction is over.” “But what about the other paintings? The masters?” “The auction is over,” said the auctioneer. “I was asked to conduct the auction with a stipulation, a secret stipulation that said that only the painting of the son would be auctioned. Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, paintings and all. The one who took the son gets everything.

Next was the foursome I had been bracing myself to face all along: Tamara, Savona, the newly met Lady Elenet, and the Marquis of Shevraeth. Very conscious of Olervec’s pale eyes following me, I forced myself to greet the Marquis first: “Good morning,” I said, as if we’d been talking just the day before. “How much I wish to thank you for putting me in the way of finding the proper books for my project.” Again that laughter was evident in his glance as he sketched a bow. “If you have any further questions,” he said, “it would be my pleasure to accommodate you.” “I’d be honored.” I curtsied, my hands making the fan gesture of Unalloyed Gratitude. The shadow of humor in the corners of his mouth deepened. Then I turned to the others. Savona grinned at me, one hand moving slightly in the fencer’s salute of a good hit. I fought the urge to blush as Tamara murmured, “You’ll be in the race tomorrow?” “Of course,” I said, lifting my hands. “I have to prove whether my wins last time were luck, skill--or the kindness of well-wishers.” Tamara smiled a little. “And once you’ve proved which it is?” “Why then I either celebrate, commiserate--or fulminate!” They all laughed at that, even the quiet Elenet, though her laughter was so soft I scarcely heard it. I turned to Shevraeth and said, “Will you be there?” “I hope to be,” he said. “Riding your gray?” “Is that a challenge?” he replied with a hint of a smile. I opened my mouth, then a stray memory brought back our private wager before we reached Athanarel and nothing could prevent the heat that burned up my neck into my face; so I quickly bent over, making a business of ordering one of the flounces on my gown. After I had straightened up I’d have an excuse for a red face, or at least enough of one to pass the notice of the three who (presumably) knew nothing of that unpaid wager. “I think,” I said, retying a ribbon and patting it into place, then unbending with what I hoped was an expression of nonchalance, “I’d better find out if my luck is due to skill or kindness before I make any pledges.” “Very well,” he said. “A friendly race will suffice.” When the conversation came to a natural close, I retreated to Nee’s side and finished the rest of the picnic with her and Bran.

A shadow passed over me, then Saadi lay down beside me. “You won,” he said. “You let me.” There was a silence--he hadn’t expected me to know. Then I heard the grass rustle as he shrugged. “You’re right. I did.” Laughing at his candor, I sat up and looked at him. He was relaxing with his arms behind his head, his bronze hair damp and sticking to his forehead. “Why did you let me win? You know that means I don’t have to spend any more time with you.” He propped himself up on his elbows, perusing my face. “That doesn’t bother me.” I frowned. Did he no longer desire my company? “I never wanted to force you to spend time with me, Shaselle. I wanted you to want to spend time with me.” “You’re a poet,” I joked, amused by his graceless word choice, and he grinned. “Besides, a victory is a victory. You won and now have the best of everything--you get your father’s horse, and you can be rid of me if you want.” With a mischievous glint in my eye, I put my hands on the ground on either side of his waist. “I would have won, anyway.” He chuckled, once more lying down flat. “You’re shameless.” I rolled back to my original position, and we both quieted, but there was an aspect of my victory that still bothered me. “Tell me, why did it matter to you who won? I mean, even if you’d won, you still could have released me from the bargain. You could have said I didn’t have to spend those two days with you.” “I could have,” he acknowledged. “But after…after you told me about your father, I wanted you to have his horse back. Rava should have had more respect for his memory. She shouldn’t have taken him--them--away.” Tears stung my eyes, and I swallowed several times to loosen my throat. What a stupid reaction. “Thank you,” I murmured, and I felt his hand close around mine, giving it a squeeze. I sighed contentedly, letting myself enjoy the moment.

Listen,” he whispered. As the thrumming of her own heart quieted, Beatrix heard music. Not instruments, but human voices joined in harmony. Bemused, she went to the window and looked out. A smile lit her face. A small group of officers from Christopher’s regiment, still in uniform, were standing in a row and singing a slow, haunting ballad. Were I laid on Greenland’s coast, And in my arms embrac’d my lass; Warm amidst eternal frost, Too soon the half year’s night would pass. And I would love you all the day. Ev’ry night would kiss and play, If with me you’d fondly stray. Over the hills and far away… “Our song,” Beatrix whispered, as the sweet strains floated up to them. “Yes.” Beatrix lowered to the floor and braced her folded arms on the windowsill…the same place where she had lit so many candles for a soldier fighting in a faraway land. Christopher joined her at the window, kneeling with his arms braced around her. At the conclusion of the song, Beatrix blew the officers a kiss. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she called down to them. “I will treasure this memory always.” One of them volunteered, “Perhaps you’re not aware of it, Mrs. Phelan, but according to Rifle Brigade wedding tradition, every man on the groom’s honor guard gets to kiss the bride on her wedding night.” “What rot,” Christopher retorted amiably. “The only Rifles wedding tradition I know of is to avoid getting married in the first place.” “Well, you bungled that one, old fellow.” The group chortled. “Can’t say as I blame him,” one of them added. “You are a vision, Mrs. Phelan.” “As fair as moonlight,” another said. “Thank you,” Christopher said. “Now stop wooing my wife, and take your leave.” “We started the job,” one of the officers said. “It’s left to you to finish it, Phelan.” And with cheerful catcalls and well wishes, the Rifles departed. “They’re taking the horse with them,” Christopher said, a smile in his voice. “You’re well and truly stranded with me now.

Montreal November 1704 Temperature 34 degrees Tannhahorens did not look at Mercy. The tip of his knife advanced and the Frenchman backed away from it. He was a very strong man, possibly stronger than Tannhahorens. But behind Tannhahorens were twenty heavily armed braves. The Frenchman kept backing and Tannhahorens kept pressing. No sailor dared move a muscle, not outnumbered as they were. The Sauk let out a hideous wailing war cry. Mercy shuddered with the memory of other war cries. Even more terrified, all the French took another step back--and three of them fell into the St. Lawrence River. The Sauk burst into wild laughter. The voyageurs hooted and booed. The sailors threw ropes to their floundering comrades, because only Indians knew how to swim. Tannhahorens took Mercy’s hand and led her to one of the pirogues, and the Sauk paddled close, hanging on to the edge of the dock so that Mercy could climb in. Mercy could not look at the Sauk. She had shamed Tannhahorens in front of them. Mercy climbed in and Tannhahorens stepped in after her, and the men paddled slowly upstream to Tannhahorens’s canoe. The other pirogue stayed at the wharf, where those Sauk continued to stand, their weapons shining. Eventually the French began to load the ship again. “Daughter,” said Tannhahorens, “the sailors are not good men.” She nodded. He bent until he could look directly into her eyes, something Indians did not care for as a rule. “Daughter.” She flushed scarlet. On her white cheeks, guilt would always be revealed. “The cross protects,” said Tannhahorens. “Or so the French fathers claim. Perhaps it does. But better protection is to stay out of danger.” Did Tannhahorens think she had gotten lost? Did he believe that she had ended up on the wharf by accident? That she was waving the cross around for protection? Or was he, in the way of Indians, allowing that to be the circumstance because it was easier? When he had thanked the Sauk sufficiently and they had agreed to tell Otter that Mercy had gone home with her father, Tannhahorens paddled back to Kahnawake. His long strong arms bent into the current. Her family had not trusted her after all. Tannhahorens must have been following her. Or, in the way of a real father, he had not trusted Montreal. Either way, she was defeated. There was no escape. If there is no escape, and if there is also no ransom, what is there for me? thought Mercy. I don’t want to be alone. A single star in a black and terrible night. How can I endure the name Alone Star? “Why do you call me Munnonock?” she asked. She wanted desperately to go home and end this ugly day. Home. It was still a word of warmth and comfort. Still a word of safety and love. The homes she had known misted and blended and she did not really know if it was Nistenha in the longhouse or Stepmama in Deerfield or her mother in heaven whose home she wanted. “You are brave, daughter,” said Tannhahorens without looking at her, without breaking his rhythm, “and can stand alone. You shine with courage, and so shone every night of your march. You are our hope for sons and daughters to come. On you much depends.

He frowned and reached out, lifting a lock of her hair off her shoulder. “Do you have mud in your hair?” “Probably,” she said. “I was standing on the porch, appreciating the beauty of this nice spring morning when one end gave way and spilled me right into a big, nasty mud puddle. And I wasn’t brave enough to try out the shower—it’s beyond filthy. But I thought I got it all off.” “Oh, man,” he said, surprising her with a big laugh. “Could you have had a worse day? If you’d like, I have a shower in my quarters—clean as a whistle.” He grinned again. “Towels even smell like Downy.” “Thanks, but I think I’ll just move on. When I get closer to the coast, I’m going to get a hotel room and have a quiet, warm, clean evening. Maybe rent a movie.” “Sounds nice,” he said. “Then back to Los Angeles?” She shrugged. “No,” she said. She couldn’t do that. Everything from the hospital to the house would conjure sweet memories and bring her grief to the surface. She just couldn’t move on as long as she stayed in L.A. Besides, now there was nothing there for her anymore.

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. I mentioned I’d been in contact with her mother. “Oh crikey, that sounds dangerous!” “She’s a feisty woman, isn’t she?” William giggled. “Granny’s great fun after a few gin and tonics.” “Sh, William,” Diana said, giggling too. “My mother’s been a tremendous source of support to me. She never talks publicly; she’s just there for me.” “And what about William’s other granny?” “I have enormous respect for the Queen; she has been so supportive, you know. People don’t see that side of her, but I do all the time. She’s an amazing person.” “Has she been good over the divorce?” “Yes, very. I just want it over now so I can get on with my life. I’m worried about the attacks I will get afterward.” “What attacks?” “I just worry that people will try and knock me down once I am out on my own.” This seemed unduly paranoid. People adored her. I asked William how he was enjoying Eton. “Oh, it’s great, thanks.” “Do you think the press bother you much?” “Not the British press, actually. Though the European media can be quite annoying. They sit on the riverbank watching me rowing with their cameras, waiting for me to fall in! There are photographers everywhere if I go out. Normally loads of Japanese tourists taking pictures. All saying “Where’s Prince William?’ when I’m standing right next to them.” “How are the other boys with you?” “Very nice. Though a boy was expelled this week for taking ecstasy and snuff. Drugs are everywhere, and I think they’re stupid. I never get tempted.” “Does matron take any?” laughed Diana. “No, Mummy, it gives her hallucinations.” “What, like imagining you’re going to be king?” I said. They both giggled again. “Is it true you’ve got Pamela Anderson posters on your bedroom wall?” “No! And not Cindy Crawford, either. They did both come to tea at the palace, though, and were very nice.” William had been photographed the previous week at a party at the Hammersmith Palais, where he was mobbed by young girls. I asked him if he’d had fun. “Everyone in the press said I was snogging these girls, but I wasn’t,” he insisted. Diana laughed. “One said you stuck your tongue down her throat, William. Did you?” “No, I did not. Stop it, Mummy, please. It’s embarrassing.” He’d gone puce. It was a very funny exchange, with a flushed William finally insisting: “I won’t go to any more public parties; it was crazy. People wouldn’t leave me alone.” Diana laughed again. “All the girls love a nice prince.” I turned to more serious matters. “Do you think Charles will become king one day?” “I think he thinks he will,” replied Diana, “but I think he would be happier living in Tuscany or Provence, to be honest.” “And how are you these days--someone told me you’ve stopped seeing therapists?” “I have, yes. I stopped when I realized they needed more therapy than I did. I feel stronger now, but I am under so much pressure all the time. People don’t know what it’s like to be in the public eye, they really don’t.

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. Just sitting in her private room was fascinating. Her magazines lay on the table, from Vogue to Hello, as well as her newspapers--the Daily Mail at the top of the pile, obviously, if distressingly. After I had spent ten minutes on my own, she swept in, gushing: “I’m so sorry to have kept you, Piers. I hope Paul has been looking after you all right.” And then came what was surely one of the most needless requests of all time: “Would you mind awfully if William joins us for lunch? He’s on an exeat from Eton, and I just thought that given you are a bit younger than most editors, it might be good for both of you to get to know each other.” “I’m sorry, but that would be terribly inconvenient,” I replied sternly. Diana blushed slightly and started a stuttering “Yes, of course, I’m so sorry…” apology, when I burst out laughing. “Yes, ma’am, I think I can stretch to allowing the future king to join us for lunch.” The absurdity of this conversation held no apparent bounds. But before he joined us, Diana wanted a little chat. “How’s your circulation?” she asked. Bloody rampant, I thought, as she nestled into her sofa, radiating a surprisingly high degree of sexual allure. “Oh very healthy, ma’am, thanks to you.” She laughed, a tad insincerely. We discussed her mate Fergie. “Can’t you go a bit easier on her?” Diana pleaded, with genuine concern in those extraordinarily big, expressively deep, blue eyes. “Well, she’s her own worst enemy,” I replied. “Look at this morning’s front pages--I mean, who the hell takes the Concorde the day after the papers reveal she’s 3 million in debt?” “I know, I know,” sighed the Princess, “but she means well; she has a big heart. It’s not easy for her.” We debated the merits of Fergie, or even Diana herself, emigrating away from the media firestorm. “Yes, but to where? I’ve thought about it often, but somebody would find me wherever I went.” And then I saw a flash of real sadness in her face, a desperation almost to have her anonymity back, but knowing it is gone forever. I asked what it was like “being Diana.” “Oh God, let’s face it, even I have had enough of Diana now--and I am Diana.” She screeched with laughter, and I saw her chameleon side. Able to switch so easily from misery to hilarity. “It’s been ridiculous recently, just one thing after another. But I can’t stop the press writing about me, can I? You are hardly going to say ‘Oh, okay then, we’ll leave you alone.’ I would like to have a good break. I meet a lot of ordinary people, and they are always so kind to me. They shout out things like ‘Eh, Di, I know what you’re going through, luv,’ and I laughed and think: ‘If only you really knew. He’s worrying about his allotment or whatever, and I’ve got things like the future of the monarchy on my mind.’” More screeches--she has a great laugh. A really earthy infectious cackle. Like a Sloaney Barbara Windsor.

Right now, We are living in perhaps the most exciting time in history to buy, own or play that eternal instruments, The piano Cover. What is your goal is to purchase something as small as software that can record what you want to play, a newly designed player piano, a digital machine or a classic phonetic model, there have never been as many options for the trencherman. Player Pianos Also called reproducing pianos. this class of instrument describe a modern update on the paper-outcry player pianos you keep in mind from old movies, and they have grown enormously in popularity over the final decennial. These are not digital instruments they are real, philological pianos with hammers and rope that can be played generally. but they can also start themselves. using filthy electronic technology. Instead of shove paper, they take their hint from lethargic disks, specially formatted CDs or internal memory systems. different manufacturers offer vast sanctum of pre-recorded titles for their systems. music in every genre from pop to the classics filed by some of the earth’s top pianists. These sophisticated systems arrest every nuance of the original performances and play them back with dramatic accuracy providing something that’s actually so much better than CD fidelity because the activities are live. Watch my new cover : Dancing on my own piano Thanks to these new systems, many people who do not play the piano are enjoying live piano music at any time of at morning, night and day. How many they are concurrent dinners for two or entertaining a houseful of partygoers, these high-tech pianos take centre period. For people who do play the piano, these systems can be used to record their own piano deeds, Interface by- Computers, aid in music education, assist with composing and many other applications. In short, these modern marvels aren’t your grandfather's’ player pianos! If you want to learn see the video first : Dancing on my own piano cover

Do you think they’ll ever be a place for us? I mean, do you think there’s a place for someone who lives under the radar, someone who has to pretend, someone who is a spy?” “Yes.” Daly said it with such confidence that I sat up in my bed, my cast dangling over the edge. “How do you know?” I asked. “There has to be. I don’t usually philosophize, but I do know one thing.” “What’s that?” “That even when we’re pretending, even when we’re hiding under wigs or accents or clothes that aren’t our style, we can’t hide our nature. Just like I knew from the moment I met you that you would choose this life. And just like I knew, when you told me about this mission, that you would agree to help the CIA find this girl. You would sacrifice yourself and your time with your brother to save someone. It’s just who you are.” “I’ve already messed things up, Daly. What if I’m not good enough? What if I can’t do it?” “That’s the thing, though. You’ll find a way.” I lay back again and buried the side of my face into my pillow. “I’m just not sure how.” “If you continue to think as you’ve always thought, you’ll continue to get what you’ve always got,” Daly said. I considered that. I wasn’t ready to give up. At least not yet. “That one is Itosu wisdom, in case you wondered.” I yawned into the phone. “It’s good advice.” “I’ll let you go. You should be resting. Don’t you have school in the morning?” He said the last part in a teasing tone. “Yeah, if I make it through another day at school. Maybe they’ll get rid of me—kick me out or something. You’d think I would have inherited some of my mom’s artistic genius.” “Can I give you one last bit of advice, Alex?” “Sure.” “Throw it all out the window.” “What?” I stared at my open window. A slight breeze blew the gauzelike drapes in and out as if they were a living creature. “Everything you’ve learned about art, the lines, the colors, the pictures in your head from other artists—just throw it all out. And throw out everything you’ve learned from books and simulations about being a good spy. Don’t try to be like someone else. Don’t force yourself to follow a set of rules that weren’t meant for you. Those work for 99.99% of the people.” “You’re telling me I’m the .01%?” I asked skeptically. “No, I’m telling you you’re not even on the scale.” Daly’s soft breathing traveled through the phone line. “With a mind like yours, you can’t be put in a box. Or even expected to stand outside it. You were never meant to hold still, Alex. You have to stack all the boxes up and climb and keep climbing until you find you. I’m just saying that Alexandra Stewart will find her own way.” The cool night air brushed the skin of my arm and I wished it was Daly’s hand instead. “You sure have a lot of wisdom tonight,” I told him. I expected him to laugh. Instead, the line went silent for a moment. “Because I’m not there. Because I wish I was.” His words were simple, but his message reached inside my heart and left a warmth—a warmth I needed. “Thank you, James.” “Take care, Alex.” I wanted to say more, to keep him at my ear just a little longer. Yet the words itching to break free couldn’t be said from over two thousand miles away. They needed to happen in person. I wasn’t going home until I found Amoriel. Which meant I had to complete this mission. Not just for Amoriel anymore. I had to do it for me. (page 143)

Thank you, Daddy," she said, kneeling beside him and kissing his cheek again as he forced the warm soup down. Autumn could be blunt and straightforward one second, tender and sweet the next. She was so much like Avery in that way. The thought touched his heart and brought a beloved memory forward. "I remember when your dad and I found out we were going to be parents. Avery was so sure we were having a little girl he started a betting pool with the physician's staff. Everyone had their money on us having a boy, but not your dad. 'His little princess', that's how he referred to you from the very beginning. Of course Avery had been right, but so had everyone else; none of that mattered to your dad. You should have seen him gloating in the doctor's office that day. Your dad always did like being right, probably about as much as he loved getting his way.

voice bringing my defenses down. I’d never have expected it a year ago, but now . . . after seeing him lose everything to follow his heart, I could. I could accept his comfort, show my vulnerability—even if it might not last. The undeniable truth was, he was meant for better things than me. One day Ellasbeth would have him, and I’d be left with the memory of who he had wanted to be. “Rachel?” But I’d be damned if I didn’t take what I could of the time we had. Catching my tears, I wiped my face, giving Trent a thankful smile as I pulled back and looked for Bis. The little gargoyle had his wings draped around him, looking like a devil himself. “Bis? Can you jump her to Trent’s?

Gregor sighed. “Of course I’ll keep you informed.” “Once a day? Haroche will be giving you bulletins once a day, I know, with your morning ImpSec briefing.” “Yes, Illyan and my coffee always used to arrive together. Sometimes, if he came in person, he’d bring the coffee himself. I always felt it was a polite hint: Sit up and pay attention.” Miles grinned. “That’s Illyan. Once a day, yes?” “Oh, very well. Look, I must go now.” “Thanks, Gregor.” The Emperor cut the com. Miles

The game is a thread, microscopic in breadth, a hint of gossamer drawing unsuspecting souls together in simple competition to the exclusion of all else, from a mother and her infant playing peekaboo to two old men hunched over a chessboard and everything in between. The game unifies, joining father and son pitching baseballs at night after a long day at the office, pitches pounding the mitt or skipping past, one time even knocking the coffee cup handle clean off and the boy scampering off to retrieve a wild one as the dad sips and ponders. The game allows brothers to bond even when the age gap is too great for real competition, their mutual effort to fashion a bridge between disparate age and ability forming a bond of trust and respect. And finally, it is the game’s presence and past and its memory that inspires each of us to forgive time and aging and their inevitable accompanying attrition because the gray and hobbled old man before me was once lean and powerful and magnificent and some of what became of him was due to the investment he made in me and after all the batting practice he threw and grounders he hit, his shoulder aches and his knees need replacement. Even though youth masks it so you don't realize it all when you’re a kid, someday it happens to you and suddenly you realize you are him and you are left wishing you could go back and tell him what you now know and perhaps thank him for what he gave up. You imagine him back then receiving nothing in return except the knowledge that you would someday understand but he could not hasten that day or that revelation and he abided it all so graciously knowing that your realization might be too late for him. So you console yourself that in the absence of your gratitude he clung to hope and conviction and the future. Turn the page and you find yourself staring out at the new generation and you wince as his pitches bruise your palm and crack your thumb and realize that today the game is growth and achievement and tomorrow it will be love and memories. The game is a gift.

Looking at the rain through my window, I can’t find an answer to this merciless solitude— The same solitude that sprouts from my eyes, A bittersweet tear which haunts me like a shadow. During evenings like this my life is about sad memories. At times I believe you’re so evil, but at end of the day you make the effort to change what my mind tells. Why don’t you turn away and let me find the love that I need? I hope you will never abandon my life and when that beautiful day comes I am going to thank you for being my lovely company. You! Eternal loneliness that poisons me- Don’t feel miserable due to these words, I only use you to drown my sorrows, to not die alone in omission.

Shortly before Christmas that year, Patrick, now seven, came along with me to work at our church’s annual Christmas bazaar. As he wandered around, he spotted a small handcrafted necklace and earring set. He thought of Diana’s recent letter and remembered our visit in Washington. As a result, he bought the little jewelry set with his saved-up allowance. We sent it to Diana for Christmas, accompanied by notes from Patrick and me. Later the following January, 1987, Diana wrote to “Dearest Patrick,” telling him she was “enormously touched to be thought of in this wonderful way.” Then she drew a smiley face. “I will wear the necklace and earrings with great pride and they will be a constant reminder of my dear friend in America. This comes with a big thank you and a huge hug, and as always, lots of love from Diana.” Could one imagine a more precious letter? I just felt chills of emotion when I rediscovered it after her death. Diana wrote to me at the same time. Now that the holidays were over, Diana had to return to her official duties--“It’s just like going back to school!” Prince William loved his new school. Diana felt he was ready for “stimulation from a new area and boys his own age…” She described taking William to school the first day “in front of 200 press men and quite frankly I could easily have dived into a box of Kleenex as he look incredibly grown-up--too sweet!” Diana noticed that Patrick and Caroline looked very much alike in our 1987 Christmas photograph. “But my goodness how they grow or maybe it’s the years taking off and leaving us mothers behind!” Diana was a young twenty-six when she wrote that observation. I wonder if she knew then that less than four years later, Prince William would be off to boarding school, truly leaving his mother behind. Again she extended a welcoming invitation. If we could manage a trip to London, “I’d love to introduce you to my two men!” By then, she meant her two sons. She also repeated that our letters “mean a great deal to me…

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. Just sitting in her private room was fascinating. Her magazines lay on the table, from Vogue to Hello, as well as her newspapers--the Daily Mail at the top of the pile, obviously, if distressingly. After I had spent ten minutes on my own, she swept in, gushing: “I’m so sorry to have kept you, Piers. I hope Paul has been looking after you all right.” And then came what was surely one of the most needless requests of all time: “Would you mind awfully if William joins us for lunch? He’s on an exeat from Eton, and I just thought that given you are a bit younger than most editors, it might be good for both of you to get to know each other.” “I’m sorry, but that would be terribly inconvenient,” I replied sternly. Diana blushed slightly and started a stuttering “Yes, of course, I’m so sorry…” apology, when I burst out laughing. “Yes, ma’am, I think I can stretch to allowing the future king to join us for lunch.” The absurdity of this conversation held no apparent bounds. But before he joined us, Diana wanted a little chat. “How’s your circulation?” she asked. Bloody rampant, I thought, as she nestled into her sofa, radiating a surprisingly high degree of sexual allure. “Oh very healthy, ma’am, thanks to you.” She laughed, a tad insincerely. We discussed her mate Fergie. “Can’t you go a bit easier on her?” Diana pleaded, with genuine concern in those extraordinarily big, expressively deep, blue eyes. “Well, she’s her own worst enemy,” I replied. “Look at this morning’s front pages--I mean, who the hell takes the Concorde the day after the papers reveal she’s £3 million in debt?” “I know, I know,” sighed the Princess, “but she means well; she has a big heart. It’s not easy for her.” We debated the merits of Fergie, or even Diana herself, emigrating away from the media firestorm. “Yes, but to where? I’ve thought about it often, but somebody would find me wherever I went.” And then I saw a flash of real sadness in her face, a desperation almost to have her anonymity back, but knowing it is gone forever. I asked what it was like “being Diana.” “Oh God, let’s face it, even I have had enough of Diana now--and I am Diana.” She screeched with laughter, and I saw her chameleon side. Able to switch so easily from misery to hilarity. “It’s been ridiculous recently, just one thing after another. But I can’t stop the press writing about me, can I? You are hardly going to say ‘Oh, okay then, we’ll leave you alone.’ I would like to have a good break. I meet a lot of ordinary people, and they are always so kind to me. They shout out things like ‘Eh, Di, I know what you’re going through, luv,’ and I laughed and think: ‘If only you really knew. He’s worrying about his allotment or whatever, and I’ve got things like the future of the monarchy on my mind.’” More screeches--she has a great laugh. A really earthy infectious cackle. Like a Sloaney Barbara Windsor.

After a few minutes, she speaks up again. “You’re next. Sing.” Anxiety grips Hallelujah’s chest, squeezing. “I don’t sing,” she says. “C’mon, it doesn’t matter if you’re bad. It’s not like this is a concert hall—” “She’s not bad.” Jonah’s back. “She has a great voice.” Rachel swings around to look from Jonah to Hallelujah. “Really? Now you have to—” “No." “But—” “I don’t sing,” Hallelujah repeats, turning away. Jonah joins them by the fire. The silence stretches out. Except it’s not really silent, not with the birds and wind and fire and how loud Hallelujah’s heart is beating. And then Jonah clears his throat. “You used to sing,” he says. “You were great.” Hallelujah ignores the compliment. She looks into the fire. She feels the last of the day’s happiness fading away, already a memory. “Why’d you quit?” Jonah asks. “Was it ’cause of Luke?” Hallelujah inhales deeply. She feels the familiar spark of anger in her gut. “Yes,” she says. “It was because of Luke. And you. And everyone else. So thanks for that.” Jonah’s face drops. She can see that she’s hit a nerve. Well, he hurt her first. The way he took Luke’s side, shutting her out. The loss of his friendship, when she needed a friend most. The loss of their voices harmonizing, when she needed music most. How she just hurt him can’t begin to compare to all of that.

s a child, I was so shy I once hid in a closet at my own birthday party! But again and again, over the years, God has confronted me with opportunities to step outside of myself to touch others. And you know what? Saying yes to God is always a hopeful endeavor. If someone asked me 40 years ago whether I'd ever write a book or speak in front of a large audience, I'd have told her she was crazy. But that's what my ministry became! And as I've matured in the Lord, my hope has grown too. These days I'm far from a hopeless romantic. I'm not a hopeless anything. I'm a wide-eyed child of God eagerly waiting to see what He has in mind for me next. hese troubling days are the perfect time to enjoy the company of old and dear friends. You can share your sorrows, rejoice at God's love, and reminisce about good times. Through all life's seasons friends add so much depth and meaning. Don't think you have to fill every minute with activities. Spend time talking, listening, and enjoying companionship. Gather around a table of great food and soak up the warmth of years of friendship. Share a verse of Scripture and a time of prayer. The Bible says, "Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus" (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18). ver the years I've put together a "This Is Your Life" scrapbook for every one of my children. The books are filled with birth announcements, birthday party pictures, graduation memories-everything imaginable. Report cards, favorite Bible verses, photos of friends, even letters they wrote from camp. My kids have so enjoyed their special books-their own personal history. I love the scripture in Proverbs that says: "The

This service that you perform is not only supplying the needs of the Lord’s people but is also overflowing in many expressions of thanks to God. —2 Corinthians 9:12 (NIV) One Sunday afternoon, early in November, I felt I just had to get out of the house. After calling ahead, I drove to visit friends, old enough to be my parents. Anne and I chatted warmly while Dick, suffering the effects of a stroke, smiled, nodded agreements, and haltingly tried to contribute. Before leaving, as if asking for a prayer, I admitted that I’d been depressed. Anne and Dick gave me more than a prayer. Midweek Anne called. “Would you like to join us for Thanksgiving?” Among three generations of their family, I sat down to a feast: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, apple pie. Taking the empty dessert plates into their kitchen, I whispered in disbelief, “Anne, are you throwing away that carcass?” “You want it? Please take it.” I went home with more than a festive memory. That weekend I made a mess of soup, a quart of which I delivered to Anne and Dick. I slid a few more cups of deboned turkey into the freezer for a later time. Which happens to be today. Dick has had another stroke and is dying. My response to the news? I chopped onions and celery and am simmering soup to take to Anne. An hour ago, when a maintenance man came by to fix my kitchen radiator, he exclaimed, “It smells like Thanksgiving in here.” Wrong month, wrong day of the week, and I hadn’t thought of it in those terms. But, yes, this tureen is indeed about more than turkey soup. Lord, show me ways to give tangible thanks to those who have been kind to me. —Evelyn Bence Digging Deeper: Lk 6:38; Col 3:17

I have not danced the waltz in several years, and what memories I have of it are few and dim. Perhaps you’d take pity on a lame soldier and see whether he can recall it?” He expected her to laugh. On his bad days he was lame, and most days he was at least unsound, as an old horse might be unsound. He had not danced the waltz since being injured, had never hoped to again because it required grace, balance, and a little derring-do. Also a willing partner. Louisa put her bare hand in his and rose. “The pleasure would be mine.” Her lips quirked as she stood, but she didn’t drop his hand. “You must not allow me to lead.” He’d watched a hundred couples dancing a hundred waltzes, and had enjoyed the dance himself when it was first becoming popular on the Continent. The steps were simple. What was not simple at all was the feel of Louisa Windham, matter-of-factly stepping quite close, clasping his palm to her own. “I like to just listen for a moment,” she said, “to feel the music inside, feel the way it wants to move you, to lift your steps and infuse you with lightness.” She slipped in closer, so close her hair tickled Joseph’s jaw. Her hand settled on his shoulder, and he felt her swaying minutely as the orchestra launched into the opening bars. She moved with the rhythm of the music, let it shift her even as she stood virtually in his embrace. What he felt inside was a marvelous sense of privilege, to be holding Louisa Windham close to his body, to have the warm, female shape of her there beneath his hands. Her scent, clean and a little spicy, was sweeter when she was this close. She wasn’t as tall in his embrace as she was in his imagination. Against his body, she fit… perfectly. And with the sense of privilege and wonder, there lurked a current of arousal. Louisa Windham was lovely, dear, smart, and brave, but she was also a grown woman whom Joseph had found desirable from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He waited until the phrasing felt right, closed his fingers gently around hers, then moved off with his partner. She shifted with him, the embodiment of grace, as weightless as sunshine, as fluid as laughter. “You lead well,” she whispered, her eyes half closed. “You’re a natural.” He was a man plagued by a bad knee and a questionable hip, but with Louisa Windham for a partner and the music of an eighteen-piece orchestra to buoy him, Joseph Carrington danced. The longer they moved together, the better they danced. Louisa let him lead, let him guide her this way and that, let him decide how much sweep to give the turns and how closely to enfold her. She gave herself up to the music, and thus a little to him, as well, and yet, she anchored him too. Dancing with a woman who enjoyed the waltz this much gave a man some bodily confidence. He brought her closer, wonderfully closer, and realized what gave him such joy was not simply the physical pleasure of holding her but the warmth in his heart generated by her trust. She was dancing with a lame soldier, with a pig farmer, and enjoying it. All too soon, the music wound to a sweet final cadence, but Louisa did not sink into the closing curtsy. She instead stood in the circle of Joseph’s arms and dropped her forehead to his shoulder. “Sir Joseph, thank you.” What

the blues every day when we wake up. Good morning, heartache, I rise, yes I rise, thank God. Hope lives. You must wake up and create your own miracles every day. I went through my life on the strength of hope, and the memory of my ancestors, and the people who showed me unconditional love. There’s no sunny day, yet there is sunshine in my life. You have to hope. It’s a dangerous and perilous tightrope walk, and yet you must rise to meet the day.

If you don’t mind, I’d like to offer a Thanksgiving prayer.” “We’d like that,” my mother said. Taking our cue from Mr. Foster, we all bowed our heads. “Dear Lord, we are indeed grateful this day for the abundance of our lives. Help us to remember that you are the giver of all blessings. Thank you for this delicious food and for good neighbors to share it with. Beau and I are grateful to have new friends and we pray, dear Lord, that your favor will shine upon them like the morning sun.

I see now why you needed space to heal. I needed space to get my shit together. To be a better man for myself, and hopefully one day a better man for you. I love you, Danielle. You probably knew that, but you’ve made me recognize the power of words, how they matter, so I’m telling you now. Here, so that this is a love note you can hold close to you. Whatever happens between us, whatever man you end up settling down with (although I promise he’ll suck in comparison to me), keep this note. Write about me in one of your books, write about us. That will be your love note to me. A way to subtly let me know you never forgot about me. This memory. This moment in time when the world was so confusing and we had to grow up, and we grew up in one another. That our time together was boundless, that affection and appreciation and fondness and emotion are all the things we felt together (and yes, I looked at a thesaurus for words to describe love, so what). Because I love you. Did I say that? I love you enough to lose you, to be thankful to have had you, to want you to be the happiest version of Danielle you can be. And whether that’s with me or without, your mom is right. If anyone deserves a true love story, it’s you.

Describing the Reiki Principles The Reiki Principles are so significant and so fundamental to Reiki practice that they are inscribed on the tombstone of Mikao Usui. The Reiki Principles were taught in various versions by different teachers before Usui's memorial stone was discovered and available in English. The Reiki Principles were taught by Hawayo Takata, and her students continue to pass them on. The Reiki Principles are five simple statements that describe how to live — just for today: Don't get angry, just for today Don't worry, just for today Be thankful, just for today, Be honest in your work, just for today, Be kind to yourself and others, just for today. Staying in the present: Just for today The starting point is the most important part of the Reiki Principles: Just for today. Today is where it really is. Yesterday is over, and tomorrow hasn’t happened yet. There is little time left to appreciate the moment if your emotions and energies are in the past or the future. If you're not in today, it's when you feel you're going through life. Too much time to remember, to look at old pictures, and to ask "what if?" Lives in the past. Sitting with your day-to-day schedule, planning the vision, dreaming about next year, next month, or even tomorrow is living in the future. It's like balancing a seesaw hanging in today. In the past or in the future, spending too much time wandering will take you away from today.

I once knew a man who didn’t know his own birthday. He was a lucky man. He lived his life each day like any other, never quite knowing his age, therefore never knowing a birth date’s yearly tyranny. I can do without them, thank you, having had many, many more than my share. The thing about birthdays is you’re rocking along drawing breath, living sunrise to sunrise, becoming who you’ll become without a thought put to it—until the day you popped into this world arrives. Then whatever happens, good or bad, you’ll forever mark it in memory along with the passage of ticking time, a date on a calendar forcing you to look behind with no way to change things and look ahead with no way to know what’s coming.

Will We Become Angels? I’m often asked if people, particularly children, become angels when they die. The answer is no. Death is a relocation of the same person from one place to another. The place changes, but the person remains the same. The same person who becomes absent from his or her body becomes present with the Lord (2 Corinthians 5: 8). The person who departs is the one who goes to be with Christ (Philippians 1: 23). Angels are angels. Humans are humans. Angels are beings with their own histories and memories, with distinct identities, reflected in the fact that they have personal names, such as Michael and Gabriel. Under God’s direction, they serve us on Earth (Hebrews 1: 14). Michael the archangel serves under God, and the other angels, in various positions, serve under Michael (Daniel 10: 13; Revelation 12: 7). In Heaven human beings will govern angels (1 Corinthians 6: 2-3). The fact that angels have served us on Earth will make meeting them in Heaven particularly fascinating. They may have been with us from childhood, protecting us, standing by us, doing whatever they could on our behalf (Matthew 18: 10). They may have witnessed virtually every moment of our lives. Besides God himself, no one could know us better. What will it be like not only to have them show us around the intermediate Heaven but also to walk and talk with them on the New Earth? What stories will they tell us, including what really happened that day at the lake thirty-five years ago when we almost drowned? They’ve guarded us, gone to fierce battle for us, served as God’s agents in answer to prayers. How great it will be to get to know these brilliant ancient creatures who’ve lived with God from their creation. We’ll consult them as well as advise them, realizing they too can learn from us, God’s image-bearers. Will an angel who guarded us be placed under our management? If we really believed angels were with us daily, here and now, wouldn’t it motivate us to make wiser choices? Wouldn’t we feel an accountability to holy beings who serve us as God’s representatives? Despite what some popular books say, there’s no biblical basis for trying to make contact with angels now. We’re to ask God, not angels, for wisdom (James 1: 5). As Scripture says and as I portray in my novels Dominion, Lord Foulgrin’s Letters, and The Ishbane Conspiracy, Satan’s servants can “masquerade as servants of righteousness” and bring us messages that appear to be from God but aren’t (2 Corinthians 11: 15). Nevertheless, because Scripture teaches that one or more of God’s angels may be in the room with me now, every once in a while I say “Thank you” out loud. And sometimes I add, “I look forward to meeting you.” I can’t wait to hear their stories. We won’t be angels, but we’ll be with angels—and that’ll be far better. Will We Have Emotions? In Scripture, God is said to enjoy, love, laugh, take delight, and rejoice, as well as be angry, happy, jealous, and glad. Rather than viewing these actions and descriptors as mere anthropomorphisms, we should consider that our emotions are derived from God’s. While we should always avoid creating God in our image, the fact remains we are created in his. Therefore, our emotions are a reflection of and sometimes (because of our sin) a distortion of God’s emotions. To be like God means to have and express emotions. Hence, we should expect that in Heaven

our Paleolithic ancestors survived thanks to their ability to navigate their environment. This is why, unbeknownst to you, your brain automatically remembers the layout of your surroundings. It doesn’t matter if it’s a house you’ve lived in for years, a hotel room you’ve stayed in for days, or a store you step into for a few minutes. While you might struggle to remember names, numbers, or other important information every day, your brain is constantly creating strong, lasting memories of everywhere you’ve ever been. It knows every apartment you’ve ever lived in, every office you’ve ever worked in, and even many places you’ve briefly passed through.

And so you have a life that you are living only now, now and now and now, gone before you can speak of it, and you must be thankful for living day by day, moment by moment, in this presence. But you have a life too that you remember. It stays with you. You have lived a life in the breath and pulse and living light of the present, and your memories of it, remembered now, are of a different life in a different world and time. When you remember the past, you are not remembering it as it was. You are remembering it as it is. It is a vision or a dream, present with you in the present, alive with you in the only time you are alive.

Theism and materialism, so indifferent when taken retrospectively, point, when we take them prospectively, to wholly different outlooks of experience. For, according to the theory of mechanical evolution, the laws of redistribution of matter and motion, tho they are certainly to thank for all the good hours which our organisms have ever yielded us and for all the ideals which our minds now frame, are yet fatally certain to undo their work again, and to redissolve everything that they have once evolved. You all know the picture of the last state of the universe which evolutionary science foresees. I cannot state it better than in Mr. Balfour's words: That is the sting of it, that in the vast driftings of the cosmic weather, tho many a jeweled shore appears, and many an enchanted cloud-bank floats away, long lingering ere it be dissolved—even as our world now lingers, for our joy-yet when these transient products are gone, nothing, absolutely NOTHING remains, of represent those particular qualities, those elements of preciousness which they may have enshrined. Dead and gone are they, gone utterly from the very sphere and room of being. Without an echo; without a memory; without an influence on aught that may come after, to make it care for similar ideals. This utter final wreck and tragedy is of the essence of scientific materialism as at present understood. The lower and not the higher forces are the eternal forces, or the last surviving forces within the only cycle of evolution which we can definitely see. Mr. Spencer believes this as much as anyone; so why should he argue with us as if we were making silly aesthetic objections to the 'grossness' of 'matter and motion,' the principles of his philosophy, when what really dismays us is the disconsolateness of its ulterior practical results? No the true objection to materialism is not positive but negative. It would be farcical at this day to make complaint of it for what it IS for 'grossness.' Grossness is what grossness DOES—we now know THAT. We make complaint of it, on the contrary, for what it is NOT—not a permanent warrant for our more ideal interests, not a fulfiller of our remotest hopes. The notion of God, on the other hand, however inferior it may be in clearness to those mathematical notions so current in mechanical philosophy, has at least this practical superiority over them, that it guarantees an ideal order that shall be permanently preserved. A world with a God in it to say the last word, may indeed burn up or freeze, but we then think of him as still mindful of the old ideals and sure to bring them elsewhere to fruition; so that, where he is, tragedy is only provisional and partial, and shipwreck and dissolution not the absolutely final things. This need of an eternal moral order is one of the deepest needs of our breast. And those poets, like Dante and Wordsworth, who live on the conviction of such an order, owe to that fact the extraordinary tonic and consoling power of their verse. Here then, in these different emotional and practical appeals, in these adjustments of our concrete attitudes of hope and expectation, and all the delicate consequences which their differences entail, lie the real meanings of materialism and spiritualism—not in hair-splitting abstractions about matter's inner essence, or about the metaphysical attributes of God. Materialism means simply the denial that the moral order is eternal, and the cutting off of ultimate hopes; spiritualism means the affirmation of an eternal moral order and the letting loose of hope. Surely here is an issue genuine enough, for anyone who feels it; and, as long as men are men, it will yield matter for a serious philosophic debate.

Slughorn raised a pudgy hand and pressed his shaking fingers to his mouth; he looked for a moment like an enormously overgrown baby. “I am not proud . . .” he whispered through his fingers. “I am ashamed of what — of what that memory shows. . . . I think I may have done great damage that day. . . .” “You’d cancel out anything you did by giving me the memory,” said Harry. “It would be a very brave and noble thing to do.” Hagrid twitched in his sleep and snored on. Slughorn and Harry stared at each other over the guttering candle. There was a long, long silence, but Felix Felicis told Harry not to break it, to wait. Then, very slowly, Slughorn put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his wand. He put his other hand inside his cloak and took out a small, empty bottle. Still looking into Harry’s eyes, Slughorn touched the tip of his wand to his temple and withdrew it, so that a long, silver thread of memory came away too, clinging to the wand-tip. Longer and longer the memory stretched until it broke and swung, silvery bright, from the wand. Slughorn lowered it into the bottle where it coiled, then spread, swirling like gas. He corked the bottle with a trembling hand and then passed it across the table to Harry. “Thank you very much, Professor.” “You’re a good boy,” said Professor Slughorn, tears trickling down his fat cheeks into his walrus mustache. “And you’ve got her eyes. . . . Just don’t think too badly of me once you’ve seen it. . . .” And he too put his head on his arms, gave a deep sigh, and fell asleep.

they’ll evoke fond memories, and they may bring you some comfort.” Henry could not imagine such a day, but he thanked her. “The girls will cherish

You know it’s a great read when you can relate to the characters in the book. My kids are all grown up now. However, I am always looking for good reads to give as gifts to my family, friends, and their little ones. This book brought back memories for me. I remember the first day of school when I dropped my kids off. I think I had more anxiety than they did. Thank goodness there was a teacher much like Mr. Shipman that helped me cope. This is a great read for new parents, teachers, students , and more. I hope you enjoy “The First Day Of School as much as I did and more. Sondra Stinson-Robinson

Under the Sun" The days are my consolation. I take one home each night and put it in the case beside my bed and watch it fade in the dark, no matter how shiny it seems at first, no matter how high it stands behind the glass. I keep a few polished for memory's sake, but even they grow tarnished and lost among the others. "Thank you," I say to the dusk each night for another trophy engraved with the cloud code of that particular day—April l0, June 19 ... As for the diamond- studded chalice I glimpsed in a dream, I no longer want it, although I live as if I do to fool myself, throwing quarters at a wall, playing the numbers, singing, "Grief is happy with a stone. See how bright it shines on the dull cold ground.

Perhaps we shouldn’t see each other for a few days. I’ve never been so tired in my life.” She tried to give him a gracious way out. Raven looked down at her hands. She wanted to give herself an out, too. She had never felt so close to anyone, so comfortable, as if she had known him forever, yet was terrified that he would take her over. “And I don’t think your family was thrilled to see an American with you. We’re too…explosive together,” she finished ruefully. “Do not try to leave me, Raven.” The car drew up in front of the inn. “I hold what is mine, and make no mistake, you are mine.” It was both a warning and a plea. He had no time for soft words. He wanted to give pretty words to her--God knew she deserved them--but the others were waiting, and his responsibilities weighed heavily on him. She raised her hand to the line of his jaw, rubbing gently. “You’re so used to having your own way.” There was a smile in her voice. “I can go to sleep all by myself, Mikhail. I’ve been doing it for years.” “You need to sleep untroubled, undisturbed, deeply. What you saw tonight will haunt you if I do not help you.” His thumb stroked across her lower lip. “I could remove the memory if you wished.” Raven could see he wanted to do it, believed that it would be best for her. She could see it was difficult to ask her to make a decision. “No thank you, Mikhail,” she murmured demurely. “I think I’ll keep all my memories, good and bad.” She kissed his chin, slid across the seat to the door. “You know, I’m not a porcelain doll. I won’t break because I see something I shouldn’t. I’ve chased serial killers before.” She smiled at him, her eyes sad. He shackled her wrist in an unbreakable grip. “And it almost destroyed you. Not this time.” Her lashes swept down, hiding her expression. “That’s not your decision.” If others persuaded him to use his talents to chase the insane, evil killers in the world, she would not leave him alone. How could she? “You are not nearly as afraid of me as you should be,” he growled. She flashed him another smile, tugging at her wrist to remind him to release her. “I think you know what’s between us would be worth nothing if you forced me to do your will in everything.

He passes on the day-old Wal-Mart cupcakes that Mom has brought home for dessert, and offers to do the dishes afterward. I help him. We work in silence—mostly. But at the end, when he’s drying glasses, when my parents are watching TV in the other room, he leans toward me. “For the record,” he says, “you should stop worrying. Your parents are awesome.” I didn’t want to be embarrassed by my parents…but maybe I did. I wanted to watch him not fit in so that I could remember that he doesn’t fit in. But it’s becoming harder and harder to remember that. There’s just one reason to keep him at arms’ length now: He’s leaving. We’re over before we ever started. “Thanks,” I say. “Also for the record,” he says, “no, I wouldn’t need two condoms.” I flush all over again, but this time it’s in heated memory. I’ve felt him, after all. I’ve been on top of him. I know precisely how thick he is, how long his erection is. “I remember.” My mouth is dry. I don’t want to look at him. But he brushes a strand of hair away from my face, and involuntarily, I look up. I don’t know what I’m seeing in his eyes now. Something raw and hungry. Or maybe I’m just seeing a reflection of my own want. “Good,” he says. “Keep on remembering.

(Atreus & Freya discuss the magical, but injured, boar named Hildisvíni) Atreus: How is he? Freya: He needs rest... but I think he's out of danger. Atreus: Does he have a name? Freya: Hildisvíni. He's been a good friend for a long time. Atreus: I've never seen a boar like him. You said he was the last in the realm? Freya: The last in this realm. He's from somewhere else entirely. Back home he could take any form he liked... but since he came here, he's been... stuck. Atreus: Stuck as a boar? Freya: Stuck in his mind. His own true nature grows faint in his memory, like a dream... while the illusion feels more real every passing day. Atreus: Not sure I understand. Freya: To live... simply to live, in your physical form, day after day... it's hard to resist believing you are your form. In youth, he might have had the strength to rebel... but Hildisvíni is very, very old. Without me to remind him of home - of himself - I fear the Boar is all that will remain. Atreus: Well, I hope he finds his way home. Freya: Thank you, child. I do too. God of War (2018 video game) Game Writers: Matt Sophos, Richard Zangrande Gaubert, Cory Barlog

Tamani checkled. ‘If it makes you feel any better, it scares the daylights our of me on a regular basis.’ He rained kisses on her again, his fingers pressed against her back and her waist, and Laurel realized that his chest was shaking convulsivly. ‘What?’ She asked pulling away. ‘What’s wrong?’ But he wasn’t sobbing-- he was laughing! ‘The World Tree,’ he said. ‘It was right all along.’ ‘When you got your answer?’ He nodded. ‘You said you would tell me someday what it said. Will you now?’ ‘Commit.’ ‘What?’ ‘The tree just said, commit.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, smiling a little. ‘I don’t understand,’ Laurel said. ‘Neither did I. I was already your fear-gleidhidh; I’d committed my life to protecting you. When the tree told me that, I figured you were as good as mine. Easy.’ ‘And then I told you to leave,’ Laurel said, sorrow at the memory settling deep within her. ‘I understand why you did,’ Tamani said, threading his fingers through hers. ‘And it probably was better for us in the long run. But it hurt.’ ‘I'm sorry.’ ‘Don't be. I was listening to the tree, and to my own selfish desires, when I should have been listening to you. I think I know what the tree really meant now,’ he said, his voice rumbling against her ear. ‘I needed to commit my life to you-- not to guiding you or protecting you, completely, in my core. I needed to stop worrying about whether you would ever do the same for me. In a way, I think that's what coming to the human world did, and why I wasn't sure I could bare to go back.’ He traced his finger down her face. ‘I was committed to the idea before-- to the love I felt for you. But not to you. And I think you sensed that change or you’d have rejected me.’ ‘Maybe,’ Laurel said, although at this moment she couldn't fathom rejecting him for any reason. His fingers found her chin, lifting it so he could look her in the eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘No,’ she said, running one finger across his bottom lip, ‘Thank you.’ Then she pulled his face down, their lips meeting, melting together again. She wished she could stay there all day, all year, all eternity, but reality came creeping slowly back in.