Feeling better, ultraviolet penetrating to the soul. Then…
Young couple, with a boy step into my frameshop, the woman holds a glass vase of flowers, pink roses, a couple white ones, blue delphinium and Queen Anne’s lace. And a card, she hands it to me, I listen while I stare into the face of a young woman, the man’s sister, age 35. Died suddenly, he says.
They were sent to me to frame the flowers, around the photo of the smiling young woman on the memorial card. It’s for her boys, the woman tells me. They’ll appreciate it some day.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Perfectly Faulknerian, S. The perfect human dimension.
I’m not sure what you mean, and I do hope you get a chance to explain. I take it as a good thing, and I thank you, but if its something that I’ve somehow managed to pick up and apply, it’d be nice to know what it is. I’m not too familiar with a lot of Faulkner’s work yet.