Rusted
The iron on the gate and the patina of the gate were fixations she could not possess herself to rid herself of. They were part of her fabric, a constant reminder of the house where her life had begun and where it continued towards its inevitable downfall. Here she had been born, where outside the window the flower tree swayed and welcomed her into the world, and in a room on the bottom floor she had watched her father die from the bullet wound his brother had given him. He had died quietly but even in quiet there is sometimes no dignity, especially before the eyes of a daughter. Also it was in the basement below the room in which her had father died that she experienced for the first time unconditional, cosmic love in the embrace of another, and in such circumstances there might be nothing but dignity. // The start of the draft of a story I'm working on. Excited to see where it goes.