Narrated by:
A morning arrives in November, a leafless, birdless, coming of winter morning, when she cannot rouse herself to exclaim: 'Oh my, it's fruitcake weather!' And when that happens, I know it. A message saying so merely confirms a piece of news some secret vein had already received, severing from me an irreplaceable part of myself, letting it loose like a kite on a broken string. That is why, on this particular December morning, I keep searching the sky. As if I expected to see, rather like hearts, a lost pair of kites hurrying toward Heaven.
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05/03/2025 alle ore 07:08
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