Manswego

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cheese

always, you're surprised maybe fat, maybe fuzzy is it love, or pain

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You screamed so piteously as you died.

`She couldn't abide that. She had to do something.'

I tried to remember this. I said, That isn't how I remember it .' The old lady sniffed.Didn't I just say you'll never get any two people to remember anything the same?' she asked.

`Can I talk to her?'

She's sleeping,' said Letti's mother.She's healing. She's not not talking yet.'

`Not until she's done where she is,' said Lettie's grandmother, gesturing, but I could not tell if she was pointing to the duckpond or to the sky.

`When will that be?'

When she's good and ready,' said the old woman, as her daughter said,Soon.'

Well,' I said.If she brought me here to look at me, let her look at me,' and as I said it, I knew that it had already happened. HOw long had I been sitting on that bench? As I had been remembering her, she had been examining me. `Oh. She did already, didn't she?'

`Yes, dear.'

`And did I pass?'

The face of the old woman on my right was unreadable in the gathering dusk. On my left the younger woman said, `You don't pass or fail at being a person, dead.'

I put the empty cup and plate on the ground.

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Hostile to the past, impatient of the present, and cheated of the future

``Thus, too, they came to know the incorrigible sorrow of all prisoners and exiles, which is to live in company with a memory that serves no purpose. Even the past, of which they thought incessantly, had a savour only of regret. For they would have wished to add to it all that they regretted having left undone, while they might yet have done it, with the man or woman whose return they now awaited; just as in all the activities, even the relatively happy ones, of their life as prisoners they kept vainly trying to include the absent one. And thus there was always something missing in their lives. Hostile to the past, impatient of the present, and cheated of the future, we were much like those whom men's justice, or hatred, forces to live behind prison bars. Thus the only way of escaping form that intolerable leisure was to set the trains running again in one's imagination and filling the silence with the fancied tinkle of a doorbell, in practise obstinately mute.''