Monday, 3 September 2012

passing thought

Sometimes I think that C will never get out of bed again, will never see our garden again, or walk around it with me, will never taste fresh figs again, or gulp cold water on a hot day, or lie in the sun in a hammock and reach up to pick an orange from breakfast, or wear any of those fine clothes and shoes with which she bedazzled the streets of every town she has graced with her presence: and then I think, oh but she did do those things, and dozens, hundreds, of others equally exquisite and bliss-provoking, and she did them many, many times.

And then I think about something else.

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