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“And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Do you think?�
I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.
He is half of my soul, as the poets say.
He holds me so tightly I can feel the faint beat of his chest, like the wings of a moth. An echo, the last bit of spirit still tethered to my body. A torment.
Her mouth tightens. “Have you no more memories?� I am made of memories. “Speak, then.�
