Today was one of those blue Sundays that I seem to possess in spades as of late, but instead of remembering it as such by posting the overly long and much too weepy entry that I drafted earlier this afternoon over French fries at the Squat & Gobble on Fillmore, I'm going to instead post an excerpt from Robyn Schneider's lovely debut novel The Beginning of Everything, which I finished reading last week.

"There's a word for it," she told me, "in French, for when you have a lingering impression of something having passed by. Sillage. I always think of it when a firework explodes and lights up the smoke from the ones before it."

"That's a terrible word," I teased. "It's like an excuse for holding onto the past."

"Well, I think it's beautiful. A word for remembering small moments destined to be lost."