Animal Dreams by Barbara Kingsolver

I'm on a re-reading Barbara Kingsolver kick. This time I'm just lolling around in the metaphors.

The leaves shine like knife blades in the beam of his flashlight.

Men in uniforms decorated with the macho jewelry of ammunition.

And somehow Hallie thrived anyway--the blossom of our family, like one of those miraculous fruit trees that taps into an invisible vein of nurture and bears radiant bushels of plums while the trees around it merely go on living.

There are all the small things you love and despise about a parent: the disappointed eyes, the mannerisms, the sound of the voice as much as the meaning of the words, that add up to that singular thing--the way you are both going to respond, whether you like it or not.

She said, "You can't let your heart go bad like that, like sour milk. There's always the chance you'll want to use it later."