the dormant house on the slant road , its nasal windows palipating , the steam of the winter like hounds marched on its foreground , and the norman's widow stepped out ,finding reasons to live , very few though , there is an imapatience attached to this job . in picking weed out of your kempt garden , the soil moist and green still wet from the night before , she slowly calculated time and broke with a smile .a broken pot with an almost closed fissure in her garden. She can recall time and certain instances of her life , certain very important instances , not those that particulary needed attention but then they got stuck through time and remained with her .Her moist bed of a greyed out december and she remembers her dining with him , the cucumber salad , and how when he came that night she was as moist and frigid as a cucumber ,
now this mositure , the mist , strange words with which she associate a life , beyond her past . her past , it seems so it was a day from last week she passed out not particulary awake . the tiring dwells in her and this climate only evokes lone moods in her . She has always fluttered on the fringes of his dominant world .