she pauses for moment beside the last picture in the hall, placing a trembling hand on the glass. a crooked-lipped boy grows from infancy to adulthood in the space between the foyer and the den.
"A child said 'What is the grass?' fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he."
she knows that all things begin because they are meant to end.
"I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps."
there is no need to look. every smile is memorized, the cowlicked hair (so obvious no matter the style), the creases of every ironed shirt etched into her mind.
"All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier."
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