Last night in the pub, I met again the man whose mother was buried a week ago. My husband's face was flecked with glitter picked up during a play rehearsal. We drank hard; I fell at some point, in my high heels, scraping my knee. This morning I didn't have to heat the house. Daffodils are just about to bloom, outside our door, in gardens everywhere, in the fields. Death may punctuate the seasons, but we manage.

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