I tire of people speaking of seasons as if you can count on three months of winter turning out three months of summer on repeat. It’s not so. The stretches on the high, windblown road are far commoner than the stopovers in comfort, and aren’t we always trying to get back to the happier times? I think that is what it feels like, with Gill. I’ve spent my life trying to get back to having him even though I know I cannot.
