AND SO IT HAPPENS For R.C.
You begin to say good-bye to the pine floorboards, to the posts and beams that hold the house together. But you cannot say good-bye to the walls: they still hold you as if they have become your back, your arms, as if they momentarily hold her here in the house on the couch, where she has begun to disappear, the pillows absorbing her, her body hidden, emaciated; the only words in the night as she dreams: I want the restaurant, I want to go to the restaurant. Her arm reaching up. Does she reach for the dead gathered in the trees above the roof of the house? Or is she reaching for you? Speaking to you? This good-bye of the body without words, this good-bye left after the friends left, their flowers and wine bottles scattered on the tables and windowsills as she travels
80 | B SR