I Forgive You," I Said. I Said

How To Commit The Perfect Murder" Was An Old Game In Heaven. I Always Chose The Icicle: The Weapon Melts Away.

The Sun Came Through The Branches Of The Tree Above Her, And Ruth Looked Up Past Them. "i Think She Listens," She Said, Too Softly To Be Heard.

It's Hard, Because When You Talk About Process Or Your Characters Ruling Your Narrative, It Sounds Like You Have No Control, But Obviously You're Ultimately The Author, So You Do Have Control.

His Love For My Mother Wasn't About Looking Back And Loving Something That Would Never Change. It Was About Loving My Mother For Everything -- For Her Brokenness And Her Fleeing, For Her Being There Right Then In That Moment Before The Sun Rose And The Hospital Staff Came In. It Was About Touching That Hair With The Side Of His Fingertip, And Knowing Yet Plumbing Fearlessly The Depths Of Her Ocean Eyes.

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.