Quotes About Connection

Those eyes, they've got a history with mine. They were the first things I saw when I came to, after being hit in the skull with a baseball thrown by Patrick at Little League. They were the fortification I needed at sixteen to ride the chairlift at Sugarloaf, although I am terrified of heights. For almost my whole life, they've told me I'm doing all right, during moments when it was not in my own power to answer.

It feels like we are sitting on the tight bench of a bus with a stranger between us, one that neither of us is willing to admit or mention, and so we find ourselves talking around him and through him and sneaking glances when the other one isn't looking.

I realize that I quite like this girl. It's not just that she's so pretty the words fly out of my mind before they can leave my mouth—it's that when we're chatting, I feel like I've known her all my life.

When you love someone, there's a pattern to the way you come together. You might not even realize it, but your bodies are choreographed: a touch on the hip, a stroke of the hair. A staccato kiss, break away, a longer one. It's a routine, but not in the boring sense of the word. It's just the way you've learned to fit.

True love is like bread. It needs the right ingredients, a little heat, and some magic to rise.

A bus cuts the world in half...

She is the person I ran to when I got my period; the one who helped me knit back together my first broken heart; the hand I would reach for in the middle of the night when I could no longer remember which side our father parted his hair on, or what it sounded like when our mother laughed. No matter what she is now, before all that, she was my built-in best friend.

What must you break apart in order to bring a family close together? Bread, of course.

Like Connor, Alex protected me -and he was the only person I let close enough to do it. Like Connor, Alex could finish my sentences before I did. But unlike Connor, for whom I had ultimately come too late, I was just in time to take care of Alex.

I sigh. "But if you'd talked to Jules—if she could hear you . . ." My voice trails off. "Then you wouldn't feel quite so crazy?" Oliver asks gently. "Can't you believe in me, if I believe in you?

Some people spend their whole lives looking for that one person. I was lucky enough to have her all along.

He thought of the grammar of Gaelic, in which you did not say you were in love withsomeone, but that you "had love toward" her, as if itwere a physical thing you could present and hold—a bundle of tulips, a golden ring, a parcel of tenderness.

so familiar that you slide back to the place where you fit.

Love is not an equation, as your father once wanted me to believe. It's not a contract, and it's not a happy ending. It is the slate under the chalk and the ground buildings rise from and the oxygen in the air. It is the place I come back to, no matter where I've been headed.

You don't have to say I love you to say I love you.

The bond between a mother and a child weighed nothing on a scale; it took up no room in a test tube. But most of us would have a hard time saying it didn't exist.

It turns out that there's something even harder than not being able to be with the person you love when you're happy: not being able to comfort her when she's sad.

Over her shoulder was Josie-and for the first time, Alex could really see a piece of herself in her daughter. It wasn't so much the shape of the face but the shine of it; not the color of the eyes but the dream caught like smoke in them. There was no amount of expensive makeup that would make her look the way her Josie did; that was simply what falling in love did to a person. Could you be jealous of your own child?

Joseph Obomsawin, the elder I lived with there, says that those who turn to animals do so because humans have let them down.

Sometimes all it take to become human again is someone who can see you that way, no matter how you present on the surface.

did not realize at that time that when you plant seeds, you also get roots.

People do belong to each other. Once you make a sacrifice for someone, you own part of his or her soul.

Please come to the dance, because you're my music.

There's an elderly woman fussing with the top of the cream pitcher, trying to get it open. Her purse sits on the counter, but as I approach, she picks up the handbag and anchors it to her side, crossing her arm over the strap. "Oh, that pitcher can be tricky," I say. "Can I help?" She thanks me and smiles when I hand her back the cream. I'm sure she doesn't even realize she moved her purse when I got closer. But I did.