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“A pearl is an everlasting tear,” he whispers. “A swaddled hurt.” I stare at him. “Likewise, the loveliest eyes are found in the heads of women who have suffered.” He smiles. “Damage lies at their shining core. As I said, Drennan, you have beautiful eyes.”
My only defense is a constant vigilance and a willingness to kick an octogenarian right up his hole.
Death, like life, is probably quite routine. Not unpleasant, just a bit dreary, the best any of us can hope for.
Memory is like a wayward dog. Sometimes it drops the ball and sometimes it brings it, and sometimes it doesn’t bring a ball at all; it brings a shoe.
“I’m sorry. It’s hard, losing someone.” He frowns. “People are easily lost.”
cry for the people who are dying from bowel obstructions and car crashes, heart attacks and lingering diseases, unhappiness and fluke DIY accidents. I cry for old rogues holed up in their clutter and brave souls too scared to go out. I cry for dead wives and bad sisters and disappeared schoolgirls. I cry for those who can’t remember and those who can’t forget and those who are stuck somewhere in the fucking middle.
