He Wept Because He Was Afraid Now

She Was The Only Doctor's Wife In Branford, Maine, Who Hung Her Wash On An Outdoor Clothesline Instead Of Putting It Through A Dryer, Because She Liked To Look Out The Window And See The Clothes Blowing In The Wind. She Had Been Especially Delighted, One Day, When One Sleeve Of The Top Of Her Husband's Pajamas, Prodded By The Stiff Breeze Off The Bay, Reached Over And Grabbed Her Nightgown Around The Waist.

He Was Free To Enjoy The Breathless Glee That Overwhelmed Him: The Speed, The Clear Cold Air, The Total Silence, The Feeling Of Balance And Excitement And Peace.

The Worst Part Of Holding The Memories Is Not The Pain. It's The Loneliness Of It. Memories Need To Be Shared.

Things Seem More When You’re Little. They Seem Bigger, And Distances Seem Farther.

He Hunched His Shoulders And Tried To Make Himself Smaller In The Seat. He Wanted To Disappear, To Fade Away, Not To Exist.