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A girl is there. Dressed in a dirty rag of a dress, turning to look at him with the large, gold eyes that have studied everything from the rafters. Her hair in the overhead light appears dark for an instant, then when she shifts, fair. She is there in vivid detail, down to a mustache of beaded water above her generous mouth. A dead girl, looking more real and more alive than anyone he has ever seen. She is not the girl--Oisin knows this wit..
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Lisa Carey |
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your life is what you make of it, with God's grace, the good and the bad.
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Lisa Carey |
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St. Brigid's Island perched like a jagged accident above the water, all grass and rock, no beach to ease the passage of a boat, no harbor to shelter it once there. Twelve miles west of Ireland, at times nearly impossible to get to and just as deadly to try to leave. It was the whim of the wind and the swelling sea that determined who landed there and who was let go.
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Lisa Carey |
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Mothers' bodies are not their own. The happiest ones seem to have forgotten what it is like to want themselves back at all.
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Lisa Carey |
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returns to the warmth of the bed, the resented comfort of sleep.
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Lisa Carey |