“That was always our solution, to go back in time. We discussed it the way others spoke of bone marrow transplants and radiation. [...] The dial was ours, and she would be at our mercy, just as she had always been, only this time we would pay attention and keep her safe. [...] We hoped that by preparing ourselves for the worst, we might be able to endure the inevitable with some degree of courage or grace.

[...] Our mother was back in her room and very much alive, probably watching a detective program on television. Maybe that was her light in the window, her figure stepping out onto the patio to light a cigarette. We told ourselves she probably wanted to be left alone, that's how stoned we were. We'd think of this later, each in our own separate way. I myself tend to dwell on the stupidity of pacing a cemetery while she sat, frightened and alone, staring at the tip of her cigarette and envisioning her self, clearly now, in ashes.”