Notice one morning that your orchid is starting to look strained. Pick up the fallen petals. Water it, but know that this, like a leprous spot, is a sign of the beginning of the end, and that from now on, water will merely prolong the inevitable.
This song has always felt so dumb to me even before its Extreme Makeover Bieber Edition. It’s historical fanfiction undercut by that insufferable “pah rum pah pum pum.”
It is not a partisan statement to say that the U.S. immigration system is broken.
If you had told thirteen-year-old Helen that in ten years she would be living in England, let alone London, I think she might have fainted in disbelief.
Why did she share her mistakes with us? Wasn’t she afraid how we might perceive her after learning about her mistakes?
He did not use grand showmanship or elaborate displays. He used simple, humble, everyday love.
One morning, after she filled my mug with coffee, and I had paid for the privilege of drinking it, she started a conversation.
I’ll admit it’s more of a mindset than a meteorological observation, but if you’re a winter-hater, might it be better in the long run to hang on to fall as long as you can?
The trouble was, though, that when I tried to imagine the stream of gold going on forever, my head would begin to thrum.
It was midnight again, France time, when I sat down for the turkey and mashed potatoes my family had waited to make.
