white on white,
she sits on rasping lace
careful eyes on careful hands
a blush upon her mother's face
"Is there anything you'd like to know before tonight?"
H: Yes, Isle?
I: Can you fly?
H: No Isle, I cannot fly.
I: But I can fly.
H: That's because you have wings. Wings with soft feathers, and light bones to lift you towards the sky.
I: Oh. If you had wings, could you fly, Herbert?
H: I don't know, Isle. I suppose I might be too heavy to fly.
I: But would you like to fly?
[Herbert does not answer.]
I: Would you?
H: I am a creature of metal, Isle. I am of the Earth. I don't think I was meant to fly.
I: I think you would like to fly, Herbert. I hope you get to fly some day.
H: I suppose I hope that too, Isle.
It's the kind of thing to which you cannot admit your agreement.
"If they offered me a choice between world peace and being a size zero forever," she caught her breath of laughter, little fingers gripping our overstuffed couch. "I would choose size zero!"
Regarding sides, politics, directions, remnenants, and going away.
My dear Miss Chauntlery,
I do apologize for not returning your correspondence of 17 May. I had meant to write when I first recieved your letter twenty-three years ago, but found myself rather wishing to do other, more interesting things instead.
However, as this unwritten missive and my own impending death are the only occupations remaining to me in this sweet life, I found myself rather eager to respond to you at last.
Yours in the fullness of time,
PS: In answer to your question, I did not wish to join you for tea on 2 June. Even as I lie dying, the prospect strikes me as insufferable.
Will it intimate independance if I buy a drink before he arrives?