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1 " When a loved one is sick, the days are long, but the years are short. "
― Lindsay Eagar , Hour of the Bees
2 " The roots of a tree stretch deeper than you think...No matter how far away you are when you bloom, you are always tied to your roots. "
3 " Stories don't end," he says. "They just turn into new beginnings." (pg. 123) "
4 " It is a big world, full of things that steal your breath and fill your belly with fire...But where you go when you leave isn't as important as where you go when you come home. "
5 " Things are only impossible if you stop to think about them. "
6 " What's scarier than death? Not living. "
7 " Do not be afraid to live and you will not be afraid to die. "
8 " Twelve is the border between childhood and old. "
9 " You want to apologize now that I'm dying. But death is not a reason to do anything. Life, mi cielo. Life is the reason to do everything. "
10 " More word salad. Even when he seems just fine, the dementia simmers underneath, waiting to burst out. "
11 " The patchy starlight gives every one of his bee-sting scars its own shadow, so his face mirrors the desert landscape: bursts of scrub and rocks, miles of flat. "
12 " Bickering seems to be my parents’ only form of communication lately. Not full-on fighting. It’s more like they’re buzzards pecking at each other in a squabble for some dead thing "
13 " Then it’s me, and the sky, alone in the great, loud silence of desert. "
14 " It doesn't match anything you have."Exactly, I think. This bracelet matches nothing in my wardrobe . . . Nothing in my life. The bracelet isn't anything like who I am; it's a bracelet for who I want to be.Carolina on p. 189 of HOUR OF THE BEES by Lindsay Eagar "
15 " Marriage is just another kind of sameness. "
16 " Measuring time isn't as simple as adding or subtracting minutes from a clock...You must find your own measuring stick. "
17 " Up ahead, a line of mesas comes into view, flat as tabletops and crumbling along the edges, rock-cakes going stale, eternally baking. "
18 " Death lurks around every corner of this ranch. It’s under the porch, slithering around Lu. It’s dragging sheep out of their pasture to eat them alive. It’s sleeping in scaly piles on the ridge. It’s dusted all over the abandoned bedroom, where you can practically see the indent from where Grandma Rosa laid her head on the pillow. "
19 " But there’s such a thing as too open. Too wide. Here in the dark, I’m nothing. I’m less than a smudge on the pages of the world’s history, tiny on the number line of forever. "