Unless modern civilization is a failure, it is entirely feasible and practicable for two races in such essential political, economic and religious harmony as the white and colored people in America, to develop side by side in peace and mutual happiness, the peculiar contribution which each has to make to the culture of their common country.

My brained warned me, but my heart didn't want to take its advice.

Stuff doesn't matter - boats, cars, fancy things don't matter. What matters, what will matter to me, is the love of the people around me, and did I take a chance? Did I seize an opportunity to do something for people with the talents that I was lucky enough to be given? Did I make a difference in the lives of people who needed me?

We have begun to slam doors, and to throw things. I throw my purse, an ashtray, a package of chocolate chips, which breaks on impact. We are picking up chocolate chips for days. Jon throws a glass of milk, the milk, not the glass: he knows his own strength, as I do not. He throws a box of Cheerios, unopened. The things I throw miss, although they are worse things. The things he throws hit, but are harmless. I begin to see how the line is crossed, between histrionics and murder.

In grief, words are a poor consolation - silence and agonizing tears are all that is left the sufferer.

A little girl came home from school with a drawing she'd made in class.She danced into the kitchen ,where her mother was preparing dinner. "Mom,guess what ?" she squealed waving the drawing . her mother never looked up. "what"? she said ,tending to the pots. "guess what?" the child repeated ,waving the drawings. "what?" the mother said , tending to the plates. "Mom, you're not listening" "sweetie,yes I am" "Mom" the child said "you're not listening with your EYES