![]() ![]() In this bed on this island where no one else lives. I’m still not used to sleeping in this bed where she died, beneath her stained glass window-the blues and yellows and reds that form a cross, encircled in the Celtic way. ![]() ![]() My body is still and flat beneath the heavy quilts-the smell of them part mothball, part cedar, part mildew, part beach rose, part my grandmother. By nature, I didn’t much notice what wasn’t.Īgnes-this Agnes-comes from different stock. Which is to say: By nature, I made do with what was given. She might have been the first, my grandmother, or it may have entered sooner-I know so little of those who came before. There was a lack of practical concern that ran in our blood. Sometimes, I sensed, against her husband’s counsel. Agnes-the first Agnes, who was my father’s mother, not long dead, on whose island I find myself now, and whom I named my daughter after (if only to pretend to understand a mystery)-had always protected her love for her only child. ![]()
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