It Wasn't Right. He Knew

This Was Her Life. Not The Life She Had Once Dreamed Of, Not A Life Her Younger Self Would Ever Have Imagined Or Desired, But The Life She Was Living, With All Its Complexities. This Was Her Life, Built With Care And Attention, And It Was Good.

Grief, It Seemed, Was A Physical Place.

Once, This Whole World Had Been Hidden Beneath A Shallow Sea.

He Carried Paul Inside And Up The Stairs. He Gave Him A Drink Of Water And The Orange Chewable Aspirin He Like And Sat With Him On The Bed, Holding His Hand...this Was What He Yearned To Capture On Film: These Rare Moments Where The World Seemed Unified, Coherent, Everything Contained In A Single Fleeting Image. A Spareness That Held Beauty And Hope And Motion - A Kind Of Silvery Poetry, Just As The Body Was Poetry In Blood And Flesh And Bone.

He Fished In His Pocket For His Keys And Instead Pulled Out The Last Geode, Gray And Smooth, Earth-shaped. He Held It, Warming In His Palm, Thinking Of All Mysteries The World Contained: Layers Of Stone, Concealed Beneath The Flesh Of Earth And Grass; These Dull Rocks, With Their Glimmering Hidden Hearts.