The morning of the last day. There's still the evening to go, still time for good-byes, pictures, and email address exchanges. The morning of the last day where there's still time to partake, to share, to enjoy before the present is swallowed up into memory centers of the brain, and where recall will eventually, sadly, undoubtedly, degrade from specifics to vagaries. (And you are?) Of course bittersweet endings are nothing new. They are the stuff of beauteous heartbreak in the shared experience of humankind. Yes, "parting is all we know of heaven, all we need of hell" and Yes, "we'll alway have Paris".(She turns into the fog, camera rolls back, visual field becomes blurred, changing from gray to black. Poof. "Au revoir mon cher" is whispered before the credits roll.)
The year she stopped eating and working and talking, she devolved, draping cloth over mirrors, not brushing her teeth. She went from Emily Dickinson to Sylvia Plath to Anne Sexton, reading their work over and over, copying their words. A day came. She reached for a pencil... cracked egg, hot griddle. Her first poem filled two pages. She now eats oatmeal and wanton soup from the Chinese restaurant.