When the Sparrow Falls

by Neil Sharpson

In my better moments, I pity him. I once met a theologian who described Hell as “a small room and enough time to think about how much you hate yourself.” Paulo Xirau entered that room a long time ago, and barred the door.

She had been pulled from the sea, cold as ice and white as snow. They had lain her on the sand and I had tried, oh God, I had tried, to breathe some life back into her. Her eyes had gazed up at me, stunned and confused in death, as if she couldn’t believe that this was where we would end. What are you doing? she seemed to be asking. Are you really going to let me go? Do something, Nikolai. Do something.

Then she would wheel me around the garden and tell me about her novel and ask my opinion about this character or that. I offered little advice, only to say that I hoped they all ended happily, even the villains. Life was too short for sad endings, after all.