memories are more than much

And in the cruel hours before dawn, in those neither one nor the other times, memory flooded in many ways ; like vinegar in a cut or a now stale madeleine moment , as a glorious heady rush of indescribable madness or as a quiet resignation. And so it was at three in the nightmorn she was taken back to a green Welsh hillside in wet October. Many things had ended there, a great friendship sealed by early death and after all these years she couldn’t stop the morbid thoughts of a stone cold grave and the dry bones beyond the beautiful smile of a life never lived for long enough.

How different the world seemed, when morning had come and passed and now in the surprising warmth of a late summer sun, she found herself tapping out words at a desk three floors up with the windows open wide.

She wasn’t sure whether to mourn the losses or be emboldened by them. Everything was as it was. She felt that familiar surge of guilt that the way she loved was never quite appropriate , that , just like her own self containment – it never spilt out far enough. That she was not enough. ┬áHer consolation came in the stories it engendered. And so perhaps in some shape or form there could be a meeting in the bird room at the Tolson museum, there was a shared path of desire through the streets of Lisbon and a heron in flight would always symbolise a light heart and an easy smile.

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