"One more time? For the audience?"he says. His voice isn't angry. It's hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me.I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go."
"It's old, very old I think. Made up long ago in our hills. What my music teacher calls a mountain air. But the words are easy and soothing, promising tomorrow will be more hopeful than this awful piece of time we call today."
"You don’t forget the face of the person who was your last hope."
"I don't want to lose the boy with the bread."
"He’s dozed off again, but I kiss him awake, which seems to startle him. Then he smiles as if he’d be happy to lie there gazing at me forever."
"Destroying things is much easier than making them."