FROM THE CHAPTER 16 ARCHIVE: If I’m ever in the unfortunate position of having to choose my last meal, I will choose a ham sandwich on lightly-toasted Pepperidge Farm bread and a cup of tea with milk and sugar. This is what I ate for lunch with my grandmother most afternoons when I was in grammar school.
In many ways, my bookmarks are like my Christmas ornaments, each telling a chapter of my life. But they are much easier to store and can be used all year.
One of the saddest times of my life was the month Tummywumps, my ginger tabby, went missing. I’d left a window open overnight, and while I dozed, she sliced a hole in the screen and stole away like a jewel thief.
For years to come, I will lie in bed and ask myself in the dark: How did I know? How can I trust myself to know again, if ever again I am called to know?
The typewriter is a musical instrument, a work of art — oh, and a simple tool for changing the world.
Twenty-five years ago, I went to Cambodia to learn about myself. I witnessed grace and resilience. I experienced heartbreak and I caused heartbreak.
