Quitter cette maison devenue le journal intime de leur vie semblait inimaginable.
Cela faisait des années qu'elle voyait des chapelets sans leur prêter d'attention. Pourtant, lorsqu'elle a rouvert les yeux, elle n'a pas vu un crucifix mais un homme, un homme mort au visage déformé par la souffrance !
He wants to be closer to his children.
"Have you said your prayers?" he asks. If he stands just so, his feet wide apart, his back straight, both his shoulders brush the door frame. He feels he is standing the way a father should: upright, firm, filling in the extra space.
(...) if you pay attention, you don't even need your guardian angel anymore. The angel kisses you good-bye and moves on to someone else, perhaps another girl or an old man or even a cat or a dog, because angels can't tell the difference. Angels can fall in love with anyone.
(...) Ellen always felt a sweet, secret relief at folding back into the blackness of the countryside, heading for home, the quietly lit farmhouses spread out from one another as if they'd fallen to earth; a shower of meteorites, each still faintly burning.
When a commercial interrupts, James watches that too. He loves TV more than anything he can think of. It is small and neat; it is easy to understand.
Mary-Margaret looks like a child's paper construction, gray with paste, wrinkled at the edges.
It is a lonely thing, remembering for someone else (...)