“The rain beat upon the world without. Anna Billig came and filled his cup with punch. He thanked her.

Never die, never die.” *

*The final words in John Banville’s Kepler.

***

She wandered in while I ate breakfast. Her legs like dry sticks, her face caved in. The pain the pain the pain, she said. The doctor? The documents? Medicine?

No call-back from the doctor yet, I said. I’ll try again this morning. No news about the documents yet. No, I can’t give you more medicine against the pain.

For the first time, she gestures toward the ground. Lie down. Sleep sleep sleep, she says. People who want to die, I’ve not met. People who want the pain to stop, yes.

***

Her grand-daughter, dressed for school and waving her plastic cup at me. They “worked” on colors yesterday. She brought flowers for her new friends. The yellow ones that feel like dried, even as they grow. A sprig of them by bedside. Handy: no risk of spilled water on books.

***

A postcard from Corsica, sent by the owners of the house. Photos of a seashell called Santa Lucia’s eyes – a lucky charm, the legend says. (A prettier legend than the one I’d heard as a child. In this version, the Virgin Mary gave Lucia prettier eyes after she’d snatched out her birth pair so as to discourage a pagan suitor. Even as a little girl, I considered this excessive in one who was supposed to act as my role model. Besides, sainthood had too many drawbacks for me.)

***

The neighbor surveys the landfill and gravel tamped into the ruts and potholes. Morning coolness subsides. I stop the pump on the cistern at the first sound of gravel. The water table keeps lowering.

For now: more phone calls to doctors and lawyers.