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Life turns on a dime. Sometimes toward us, but more often it spins away, flirting and flashing as it goes: so long, honey, it was good while it lasted, wasn’t it?
Home is watching the moon rise over the open, sleeping land and having someone you can call to the window, so you can look together. Home is where you dance with others, and dancing is life.
Mike said, “I tell her to quit with the powder already, it makes her look like an advertisement for Soames’s Mortuary, but she won’t listen. I also tell her I’m not going with her out of pity, or so she won’t swallow any more pills. She says she believes me, and maybe she does. On sunny days.”
I was Jake Epping, high school teacher; I was George Amberson, aspiring novelist; I was the Jimla, who was endangering the whole world with every step he took.
The past is obdurate for the same reason a turtle’s shell is obdurate: because the living flesh inside is tender and defenseless.
Goodbye, Sadie. You never knew me, but I love you, honey.
She speaks in a voice almost too low to be heard over the music, but I hear her—I always did. “Who are you, George?” “Someone you knew in another life, honey.” Then the music takes us, the music rolls away the years, and we dance.
