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Each time I told my story, I lost a bit, the smallest drop of pain. It was that day that I knew I wanted to tell the story of my family. Because horror on Earth is real and it is every day. It is like a flower or like the sun; it cannot be contained.
Sep 29, 2025
If I had but an hour of love,if that be all that is given me,an hour of love upon this earth,I would give my love to thee.
Because horror on Earth is real and it is every day. It is like a flower or like the sun; it cannot be contained.
There was one thing my murderer didn't understand; he didn't understand how much a father could love his child.
Before, they had never found themselves broken together. Usually, it was one needing the other but not both needing each other, and so there had been a way, by touching, to borrow from the stronger one's strength.
You're not supposed to look back, you're supposed to keep going.
I fell in love with you again; While you were away - Jack Salmon
He took the hat from my mouth. ''Tell me you love me'', he said. Gently I did. The end came anyway
What I think was hardest for me to realize was that he had tried each time to stop himself. He had killed animals, taking lesser lives to keep from killing a child
I wish you all a long and happy life
Sometimes the dreams that come true are the dreams you never even knew you had.
If they give you ruled paper, write the other way.
How to Commit the Perfect Murder" was an old game in heaven. I always chose the icicle: the weapon melts away.
I would like to tell you that I am, and you will one day be, forever safe.
Sometimes you cry, Susie, even when someone you love has been gone a long time.
"When the dead are done with the living, the living can go on to other things," Franny said. "What about the dead?" I asked. "Where do we go?"
Each time I told my story, I lost a bit, the smallest drop of pain.
So there are cakes and pillows and colors galore, but underneath this more obvious patchwork quilt are places like a quiet room where you can go and hold someone's hand and not have to say anything.
I had rescued the moment by using my camera and in that way had found how to stop time and hold it. No one could take that image away from me because I owned it.
These were the lovely bones that had grown around my absence: the connections-sometimes tenuous, sometimes made at great cost, but often magnificent-that happened after I was gone. And I began to see things in a way that let me hold the world without me in it. The events that my death wrought were merely the bones of a body that would become whole at some unpredictable time in the future. The price of what I came to see as this miraculous body had been my life.
What did dead mean, Ray wondered. It meant lost, it meant frozen, it meant gone.
My name is Salmon, like the fish; first name, Susie. I was fourteen when I was murdered.
Hold still," my father would say, while I held the ship in the bottle and he burned away the strings he'd raised the mast with and set the clipper ship free on its blue putty sea. And I would wait for him, recognizing the tension of that moment when the world in the bottle depended, solely, on me.
At fourteen, my sister sailed away from me into a place I’d never been. In the walls of my sex there was horror and blood, in the walls of hers there were windows.
I watched my beautiful sister running . . . and I knew she was not running away from me or toward me. Like someone who has survived a gut-shot, the wound had been closing, closing - braiding into a scar for eight long years.
Inside the snow globe on my father's desk, there was a penguin wearing a red-and-white-striped scarf. When I was little my father would pull me into his lap and reach for the snow globe. He would turn it over, letting all the snow collect on the top, then quickly invert it. The two of us watched the snow fall gently around the penguin. The penguin was alone in there, I thought, and I worried for him. When I told my father this, he said, "Don't worry, Susie; he has a nice life. He's trapped in a perfect world.
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