The child gives, because the body can, and the mind of the violator cannot. - Maya Angelou

To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power. Or the climbing, falling colors of a rainbow.

Weekdays revolved on a sameness wheel. They turned into themselves so steadily and inevitably that each seemed to be the original of yesterday's rough draft. Saturday, however, always broke the mold and dared to be different.

Most people don't grow up. Most people age. They find parking spaces, honor their credit cards, get married, have children, and call that maturity. What that is, is aging.