I don't want a tombstone. You could carve on it 'She never actually wanted a tombstone.'

There are things that can't be said, because it's hard to have to know them.

Tonight I can smell the season the way it's usually only possible to at the very first moments of its return, before you're used to it, when you've forgotten its smell, then there it is back in the air and the flow of things shifting and resettling again.

Outside the leaves on the trees constricted slightly; they were the deep done green of the beginning of autumn. It was a Sunday in September. There would only be four. The clouds were high and the swallows would be here for another month or so before they left for the south before they returned again next summer.

I don't want a tombstone. You could carve on it 'She never actually wanted a tombstone.'

Oh. To be filled with goodness then shattered by goodness, so beautifully mosaically fragmented by such shocking goodness.

I have thought for a long time that the way my clothes hang on me is more important than me inside them.