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can’t defend my feelings, they just are.”
The illusion shattered. That was the price of looking at things too closely.
Unsure what to do with such overwhelming grief.
They were not yet ready to remove the clothes, as though to do that was to remove their grief and leave Laurent behind.
Al Lepage looked like a paper bag that had been crumpled up before being thrown away.
The line between fact and fiction, between real and imagined, was blurring. The tether holding people to civil behavior was fraying. They could see it, and hear it, and feel it coming apart.
But they both knew that words were weapons too, and when fashioned into a story their power was almost limitless.
Clara knew that grief took a terrible toll. It was paid at every birthday, every holiday, each Christmas. It was paid when glimpsing the familiar handwriting, or a hat, or a balled-up sock. Or hearing a creak that could have been, should have been, a footstep. Grief took its toll each morning, each evening, every noon hour as those who were left behind struggled forward.
Stories lined the walls and both insulated them from the outside world and connected them to it.
