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How many years have slipped through our hands?
At least as many as the constellations we still can identify. The quarter moon, like a light skiff,
 floats out of the mist-remnants
Of last night’s hard rain. It, too, will slip through our fingers
 with no ripple, without us in it.

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Jodi Picoult

The best place to cry is on a mother's arms.

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