From the title story, “The Sense of Touch”:
Creation, I think, is an astounding place to be, teeming with warnings and messages. You know, the age of any tree can be discovered simply by looking inside its trunk and counting the number of rings. Of course, the only way to do that is to go ahead and chop it down. When you see a tree through those eyes, it has to be best to just let it grow. Leave it alone, preserve the inner secrets, let the damned thing be. There is precious little use for a stump.
From “Be Not Afraid of The Universe”:
I sensed the significance. There was another person out there like me: a fellow traveler. The friendships of childhood are the purest kind. They have no basis. Their reasons for existence have to do with things like next-door neighbors and alphabetical order. I’m convinced that Josh and I were friends only because we were planted next to each other on the floor. But then, that’s probably the best possible reason to be friends with someone: because they are there.
From “The Sense of Touch” again:
Usually, Vonda comes to class with something she must let out. The horn will sound, her gates swing open, and it bursts across the dirt, bucking, thrashing, kicking up dust. Searching for clowns. Daring anyone to try and tackle it, wrestle it to the ground.
Now you won’t believe me when I say the only reason this book didn’t align with me completely was because, these days, I want a wrestling book, full of heat and fight and fire, and these stories read more like poetry to me. You really won’t believe me. Searching for clowns.
(And that’s not mentioning my favorite one here, Evie and Waylon in “Beginning With Minneapolis,” Waylon digging Evie’s grave.)