I am thinking of my grandfather eating some of the last fresh fruits and raw vegetables of his life as he rides a train late October, through France to the frontlines.
It makes me suddenly stop typing, put my hands in my lap, and whisper, “oh god.”
I look out the window at the trees and sky which seem to go on forever.
My heart sucks in its breath.
I am on page ten. Nine more pages to go.
The paper smells faintly of mold and an old perfume which is more like cologne, a deeper more serious amber sort of fragrance wafts up from time to time.
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