Her body never took to the manufacture of children.

Great curtains of light moved as if blown by a wind, billowing above us.

And creatures should be loved for their wisdom if they cannot be loved for kindness.

here, bruises, blossoming like star clusters under the skin, black and yellow smoke trapped under the membrane.

My forehead aches from the tightness of my plaits, and I suddenly long to untie them, to walk about with my hair unbraided, to lie on my back in the sun.

‘Do I remember?’ she repeated, a little louder. ‘I wish I could forget it.’ She unhooked her index finger from the thread of wool and brought it to her forehead. ‘In here,’ she said, ‘I can turn to that day as though it were a page in a book. It’s written so deeply upon my mind I can almost taste the ink.’

those hidden bruises suggested something more – an end to the stifling ordinariness of existence.

Death happened, and in the usual way that it happens, and yet, not like anything else at all.

She and Margrét leave, but her words hang in the room behind her. You ought to feel the sun on your face. ‘Before you die,’ I cannot help but add, aloud, to the rustle of the embers.