The Last House on Needless Street

by Catriona Ward

If there’s anything better than a cat on the bed, I don’t know about it.

I ate a pickle and now I feel a lot better.

Birds aren’t like people. Pain makes them quiet.

I judge people two ways—on how they treat animals, and on what they like to eat. If their favorite food is some kind of salad, they are definitely a bad person. Anything with cheese, they are probably OK.

The gods are closer than you would think. They live among the trees, behind a skin so thin you could scratch it open with a fingernail.

Everything was gentle, inside me and out. Only children can feel that kind of safety; I know that now.

Breaking me, then mending me, over and over—that was my mother.

Ted’s house smells strongly of vegetable soup and old, used-up air. If sorrow had a scent, she thinks, this is what it would be like.