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“For the rest of my life there would be a splinter in my being, stinging from the moment my mother died until it was buried with me.”
― Crying in H Mart
― Crying in H Mart
“Every time I remember that my mother is dead, it feels like I’m colliding with a wall that won’t give. There’s no escape, just a hard surface that I keep ramming into over and over, a reminder of the immutable reality that I will never see her again.”
― Crying in H Mart
― Crying in H Mart
“Her art was the love that beat on in her loved ones, a contribution to the world that could be just as monumental as a song or a book. There could not be one without the other.”
― Crying in H Mart
― Crying in H Mart
“It felt like the world had divided into two different types of people, those who had felt pain and those who had yet to.”
― Crying in H Mart
― Crying in H Mart
“She was my champion, she was my archive. She had taken the utmost care to preserve the evidence of my existence and growth, capturing me in images, saving all my documents and possessions. She had all knowledge of my being memorized. The time I was born, my unborn cravings, the first book I read. The formation of every characteristic. Every ailment and little victory. She observed me with unparalleled interest, inexhaustible devotion.”
― Crying in H Mart
― Crying in H Mart
Heather’s 2025 Year in Books
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