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He loved me some days. I'm sure he did: 99 essays on growth through loss

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Charlotte Eriksson

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“I am comparing gravity with belonging... Both phenomena observably exist... but neither is understood...We know the force of gravity but not its origins; and to explain how we become attached to our birth places we pretend that we are trees and speak of roots. Look under your feet. You will not find gnarled growths sprouting through the soles. Roots, I sometimes think, are a conservative myth, designed to keep us in our places. -- from "Home" and "Shame”

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Book:Home
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“Bethel reveals that God is present in every liminal place, lending his anchoring weight to our weightless lives. Our in-between places--between jobs, between cities, between houses--can easily feel like a bookmark, as if their only job was separating past from future. But these places are indeed part of the story, even when we have failed to give them a name... A nameless place can be the site of tentatively taking our first step toward trust; it's at Bethel that we can begin believing in a God, who journeys with us.”

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Book:Keeping Place: Reflections on the Meaning of Home
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“Shaggy,” a small voice called. When Bran looked up, his little brother was standing in the mouth of Father’s tomb. With one final snap at Summer’s face, Shaggydog broke off and bounded to Rickon’s side. “You let my father be,” Rickon warned Luwin. “You let him be.” “Rickon,” Bran said softly. “Father’s not here.” “Yes he is. I saw him.” Tears glistened on Rickon’s face. “I saw him last night.” “In your dream . . . ?” Rickon nodded. “You leave him. You leave him be. He’s coming home now, like he promised. He’s coming home.”

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Book:A Game of Thrones
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“At home I pulled all my blinds. I said to my Grandmama and Mama this and that. I said to them, You believed in signs. I remember that well. I remembered how my Mama could read the steam coming off a soup kettle. Especially if it had good, fresh marrow in it. And if I didn’t feel good, Grandmama would go out and bring in fistfuls of wild herbs. She’d throw them in broths and read, depending on my ailment. She was half doctor, half priest. I said to her once when I had the croup and she was making me drink something that had grass in it, I said, “Grandmama, are you making me drink magic?” “No baby, this is good ole-fashioned hoodoo.”

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Book:Sugar Cage
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