Chunks of ice are crashing, sliding, crashing off our back roof, and every time a piece falls the cat jumps like he's been shot. I stepped out the back door this morning into weather that feels like March: 35 degrees and the air dense and damp.
I've started reading Kazuo Ishiguro's novel The Buried Giant and am finishing the last sad pages of Emily Gillespie's diary.
August 16, 1881: . . . I sometimes think of words which different women have told me in my girl-hood--that--"woman is always lovely--untill her strength & beauty fails, then--she is--only in the way"--it seems almost invariably true, yet we will try to say & think--all is well. . . .
November 1, 1882: Tis 20 minutes past nine. [Her daughter] Sarah started at 5 minutes past nine . . . though I grieve that she has gone, I feel tis all right. she wants to do what she can to make money so as to get ready to try to go to College. . . . Yes, they [her children] are both gone. . . . O but I miss their society so much, though if I know they are doing well, I feel better about it. now I must go to work. . . .
March 27, 1883: I finish my night-gown &c. go to Town with [her husband] James. he feels better natured--I am thankful he does. I sometimes think tis a real disease that some people have to have a time every so often, they seem to get so full of some undefinable thing they must explode.