In my 20s, I railed against anything 'spiritual', I thought it was all crap.

What did dead mean, Ray wondered. It meant lost, it meant frozen, it meant gone.

But also I wanted him to go away and leave me be. I was granted one weak grace. Back in the room where the green chair was still warm from his body, I blew that lonely, flickering candle out

I wanted to be the moron of the family, because morons seemed to have more fun, more freedom and more personality.

I had always been in love with him. I counted the lashes of each closed eye. He had been my almost, my might have been, and I did not want to leave him

The relationship with the words someone uses is more intimate and integrated than just a quick read and a blurb can ever be. This intimacy - the words on the page being sent back and forth from engaged editor to open author - is unique in my experience.

I wish you all a long and happy life