It was as if his Aunt had been preserved in honey. Her voice sounded nearly as he wanted her to sound and she looked almost like the face at the front of his head, but there was something else now, death had tinted her, fractured her so she was clear and cloudy at the same moment. She threw off light and darkness washed up so he felt, at his feet.
‘George’ the new voice spoke, slightly lifting his name above the parapets of the past. ‘The girl who lived over the wall from my mother’s with three brothers and a collection of ants who ate on a special plate and drew strange heads on my school book once? I met her again and we talked of those meetings in that room with the long benches and the rare time she came to play in my garden with the greenhouse where only grass grew. My father’s rages of course and the terrible rash that ate up her brother.I knew I would like her again and I do. ‘