Sitting on the deck in my not-broken chair. Sunset, on the cusp of dusk. A drippingly, deathly hot day tips gently over into a cool, dry evening. Screen doors open and shut, cars whisper by three stories below. Basements hum. Trees tremble gently. The ocean, somewhere, breathes.
Finishing Once Upon a River by Diane Setterfield—a book about a little girl, drowned and then revived again—and then looking at the bookmark I have used from the beginning, a postcard, a drawing of a girl overlooking a body of water. An ocean, clearly, but it could be a river.
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