"In the springs of my childhood, my mother and I cleared death from our front yard."

"The families on my street painted their houses strawberry, blueberry, Key lime, mango, one after the other like a roll of Lifesavers."

"God’s acre, they call it. A burial ground. A graveyard. A necropolis. A place where stone rises in jagged memorial."

"The last thing she says, like there hasn’t already been enough crud rubbed in my face, is 'Glory, you were such a lion when I met you.'"