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The Divine Comedy,
Marithe knows she is looking down, right to the bottom of her, that her mother can see all of her and thinks it will be OK.
“You weren’t,” Daniel muttered. “I wasn’t what?” “Wrong about me. Not then, not that day.”
What a child, he is about to say, but doesn’t because at that moment he feels, for the first time ever, not quite the presence but the possibility of another child, to the back and slightly to the side of him, a form, a being, standing at his leg. It isn’t so much a visitation or a haunting, just the idea of someone who might yet appear, might still exist.
On the greenish glass in front of his face, his exhalations appear, then fade, appear, then fade, the unseen showing itself, over and over, the invisible making itself known.
assiduous
What redemption there is in being loved: we are always our best selves when loved by another. Nothing can replace this.
There was something that set apart a man who had grown up among women—a strong mother and a clutch of sisters,
“that marriages end not because of something you did say but because of something you didn’t. All you have to do now is work out what it is.”
Marithe felt those tears pricking at her eyelids now. To never feel that again, that idea of yourself as one unified being, not two or three splintered selves who observed and commented on each other. To never be that person again.
