In memory of P.J.S. on her sixty-third birthday.
In memory of P.J.S. on her sixty-second birthday.
“The calla lilies are in bloom again.
Such a strange flower…”
– Kate Hepburn, Stage Door
In memory of P.J.S. on her fifty-ninth birthday.
open, to Spring
I would tell you about the spring if I thought it might persuade you even now to return, but every bud and bird would only afflict you and make you sad where you are, so not one word of the robins, and not one word of the bloom, lest it make the city darker, and your own home more dear.
But nothing forgets you, Emily, not a blossom, not a bee; for in the merriest flower there is a pensive air, and in the bonniest bee a sorrow—they know that you are gone, they know how well you loved them, and in their little faces is sadness, and in their mild eyes, tears. But another spring, dear friend, you must and shall be here, and nobody can take you away, for I will hide you and keep you—and who would think of taking you if I hold you tight in my arms?