I picked up her letter: the usual not-to-worry, lots-of people-will-visit, chin-up, and a promise to work hard on the bathroom, and not let Mrs White get in the way. That she’d come soon, or if not she’d send her husband. That my operation would be the next day. At this, I let the letter fall to the bed. The next day! What if I died? So young and so promising! I thought of my funeral, of all the tears. I wanted to be buried with Golly and my Bible. Should I write instructions? Could I count on any of them to take any notice?
