No One Can Write Like Cheryl Strayed.

My Cousins And I Used To Play Beatle Wives. We All Wanted To Be Married To Paul, But John Was O.k. Too. None Of Us Wanted Ringo. Or Even Worse, George.

In Orphan Train, Christina Baker Kline Seamlessly Knits Together The Past And Present Of Two Women, One Young And One Old. Kline Reminds Us That We Never Really Lose Anyone Or Anything Or – Perhaps Most Importantly – Ourselves.

No One Can Write Like Cheryl Strayed.

My Daughter, Grace, Was Not Killed By A Gun. She Died Suddenly At Age 5 From A Virulent Form Of Strep. As I Stood Stunned In A Church At Her Memorial, One Of The Hardest Things I Heard Someone Say Was, 'i'm Going To Go Home And Hug My Child A Little Tighter.' 'well, Good For You,' I Thought. 'i'm Going To Go Home And Scream.'

I Was A Daughterless Mother. I Had Nowhere To Put The Things A Mother Places On Her Daughter. The Nail Polish I Used To Paint Our Toenails Hardened. Our Favorite Videos Gathered Dust. Her Small Apron Was In A Box In The Attic. Her Shoes - The Sparkly Ones, The Leopard Rain Boots, The Ballet Slippers - Stood In A Corner.