The Retarded's Notebook

At some point, I have to stop writing about the people who left. I have to stop rewriting stories to make it look like nothing ever ended. At some point, I have to declutter my workspace and throw away unsent letters, delete drafts that I can’t finish, take down tiny notes I accidentally published.

I’m tired of twisting tales. They left and that’s all of it.

I firmly believe in small gestures: pay for their coffee, hold the door for strangers, over tip, smile or try to be kind even when you don’t feel like it, pay compliments, chase the kid’s runaway ball down the sidewalk and throw it back to him, try to be larger than you are— particularly when it’s difficult. People do notice, people appreciate. I appreciate it when it’s done to (for) me. Small gestures can be an effort, or actually go against our grain (I’m not a big one for paying compliments…), but the irony is that almost every time you make them, you feel better about yourself. For a moment life suddenly feels lighter….

Some people say home is where you come from. But I think it’s a place you need to find, like it’s scattered and you pick pieces of it up along the way.

She did not want to move, or to speak. She wanted to rest, to lean, to dream. She felt very tired.