We’ve had a rough and uncomfortable relationship this story and me. At times it seemed to want to be told, then wouldn’t cooperate to tell it. Maybe I couldn’t hear it, maybe it was Mary, the woman telling the story, who couldn’t tell it.
We’ve given up on each other twice before and each time we’ve touched noses and started over again. This time I think our relationship is terminal. Part of me is relieved, part sad. I wonder if other writers grapple with this kind of thing.
Adieu, Mary, fare thee well.