When I can't think what else to do, I buy flowers. They do not last but I keep the water levels high - they can take it into their leaves and survive - the orange petals, like sudden fire.
The notebooks I tore up sit in bags in the hall. There's a story in there, about a girl who disappeared; a sad poem about the moon. All the diaries from thirteen to nineteen,
They choose where they land. We hold out our hands anyway, hoping to be picked. The larger ones flatten against walls, bold and beautiful as paintings. They watch as we tred carefully,