would’ve loomed over her day and night, yielding his post only to bolster her spirits with the smell of cardamom tea or lemon cake or frying back fat. He would’ve made himself her blanket, her bolster, her mattress; he would’ve summoned every doctor, quack, and conjurer in a hopeless effort to assist her revival. He would never have accepted that there were some wounds that only time and the spirit could heal.
Warren
