“...she imagines her body curled in the narrow monk's bed, knees to chin, her own irrefutable geography, but she sees the blood of her futile heart seeping out over her chest and arms and legs, flooding across the rough wooden floor, down the narrow wooden stairs and out into the old soil of the garden. No roses, no, she does not even ask to make roses, just dissolution; most any night she asks just for that.” LossGriefSadnessGrievingEmptinessLost LoveOblivionEmotional Pain Book:Widow: Stories Source: Widow: Stories
“Wandering is better than place sometimes, than home, than destination. Sometimes she can eke out the idea that wandering is possibility, chance, serendipity--he might be there, that place she didn't think to look, hadn't worked hard enough to find....” LoveLossGriefGrievingMourningLost Love Book:Widow: Stories Source: Widow: Stories