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“There are little things nobody warns you about when you’re waiting your turn to die: how you’ll miss a heavy homemade quilt, stitched just right, covering two bodies; how you’ll wait for evening light to fall on the painted walls of a shared bedroom; how you’ll hear the song of finches and a woman’s voice cluster in your head long after they’re gone; how you’ll remember the taste of Southern honest-to-God good cooking shared between two bowls and two plates and two sets of spoons, forks, and knives; how you’ll forget the way the air smells when there’s nothing but love pouring out your lungs because there’s no one left to breathe in all that love.” — Stephanie Dupal
There are little things nobody warns you about when you’re waiting your turn to die: how you’ll miss a heavy homemade quilt, stitched just right, covering two bodies; how you’ll wait for evening light to fall on the painted walls of a shared bedroom; how you’ll hear the song of finches and a woman’s voice cluster in your head long after they’re gone; how you’ll remember the taste of Southern honest-to-God good cooking shared between two bowls and two plates and two sets of spoons, forks,
and knives; how you’ll forget the way the air smells when there’s nothing but love pouring out your lungs because there’s no one left to breathe in all that love.