Part the first
In every ending there is a beginning.
The last few days have gone by in skips and jumps, cut scraps of whole cloth memory tossed to the floor. One minute she is slipping on ice, one minute she is in a cast. One hour here her sister is alive, one hour there her sister is dead. One half-night she is sleeping in her bed, the rest of that night she is at her mother’s bedside, losing her too. At the hospice, as she holds her mother’s cooling hand and in the spare moments when she surfaces from the ocean of bewilderment that is drowning her she wonders distantly about the missing time. How did she get from there to here?
She does not know then that this will be her life for the next half-decade and counting.
Toni L.H. Boughton 