“…wrapping about her skin like the vines of the strangler fig on these hapless trees, like his insatiable hands and arms, like his greedy western thoughts…”
She closes her eyes to the feeling of her fingernails underwater. She doesn’t see the black of eyelids but instead- the deep green of quiet air under the pond’s surface.
“And suddenly, these most petite of little performers scattered, aghast in a flurry of membrane wings and tutu's as if in a melodrama at the sight of a looming figure approaching…”
"For a Widow-Turned-Bride quite often needs that last moment to say goodbye to her previous chapter and hello to the next one; yea, and to breathe..."
"Maggie saw him hoist aloft his tiny quarry with spry glee, his face seemed to crack in two with more crows feet than a murder into what she thought was the biggest smile since she said yes to him..."
"His hand is right there- right in front of me! Heavens, I know it can't happen but more and more I wonder- can something living be... touched?"
