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Quote by H.C. Roberts

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Harp and the Lyre: Exchange

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H.C. Roberts

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“Life is never what you expect it to be. You want it to be happy and peaceful. You want to get a good job, find a good wife, have kids, raise them just right, die without debts. But sometimes, for some people, chaos takes over and spoils the great plan. It pushes you in a direction you never thought you’d travel before, keeps you away from the life you truly wanted. But for these very unlucky people, despite their adversity and turmoil, usually turn out to be the most interesting. I, myself, a mirror of the society I left behind, have been unlucky enough to become interesting.”

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“Joan felt, so acutely, that the incurable problem with life was that nothing was ever in balance. That she could not have toddler Frances and fifth-grade Frances at the same time. She could not meet adult Frances and have a moment to hold baby Frances all at once. You could not have a little of everything you wanted. Joan tried to remind herself that when Frances had been younger, she had held France's little hand every single chance she got. When Frances has been a baby, she had smelled hair sometimes for whole minutes at a time. She had been present for all of it. Didn't that mean that she would not grieve its loss, since she had voraciously and self-indulgently taken all of it that was offered? No. It did not. She still ached for every version of Frances. But to love Frances was to be always saying goodbye to the girl Frances used to be and falling in love again with the girl Frances was becoming. She missed every Frances she known. But oh, this Frances. This lanky, gangly, whip-smart Frances, with her ears pierced and a Cyndi Lauper T-shirt on, this Frances was a gift Joan would one day miss, too.”

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“When they laid you in the crook of my arms like a bouquet and I looked into your eyes, dark bits of evening sky, I thought, of course this is you, like a person who has never seen the sea can recognize it instantly. They pulled you from me like a cork and all the love flowed out. I adored you with the squandering passion of spring that shoots green from every pore. You dug me out like a well. You lit the deadwood of my heart. You pinned me to the earth with the points of stars. I was sure that kind of love would be enough. I thought I was your mother. How could I have known that over and over you would crack the sky like lightning, illuminating all my fears, my weaknesses, my sins. Massive the burden this flesh must learn to bear, like mules of love.”

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“You have layers over layers of a memory in a place. There is the deepest layer, with the ones you love the most, or have the most memories with. Years and years and years. Maybe, you think, I'll make new memories here with new people. Because you can't give up the place entirely-it's physically impossible, or emotionally. And there you are, and both you and the place are layered, like wallpaper on top of wallpaper for centuries, and you'd have to peel everything away, you'd have to be the bare boards, no memories, nothing left. To get rid of some things, you'd have to get rid of everything. So then you are. There you are. Living on. A house with ghosts.”

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