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It was the first time they’d seen their mother cry. She wasn’t sobbing. Her face was set like stone, but the tears welled up in her eyes and ran down her rigid cheeks.
I’m convinced this is the only way a mother cries in front of her children.
Over time he had acquired the ability to blend into the background of wherever he was—into bookshelves, gardens, curtains, doorways, streets—to appear inanimate, almost invisible to the untrained eye.
A quiet bubble floating on a sea of noise.
It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined.
the ornamental garden had been abandoned. Left to its own devices, it had grown knotted and wild, like a circus whose animals had forgotten their tricks.
Only the vines kept growing, like toe-nails on a corpse.
With her eyes she looked in the direction that her husband looked. With her heart she looked away.
