I spend all day working on a pivotal chapter in Presences of Absences, condensing a couple of pages into a single paragraph. Papa Hemingway advises us to write “hard and clear”. I spend hours trying to craft such a paragraph. I tweak and tweak again, rearranging words and sentences, and reading the thing out loud.
The rain. The rain. I wake again to cool morning air in the room and the sound of rain falling. Gerry throws open the curtains and there is gray outside. There is a pouch of something just under my solar plexus. Panic maybe. So keenly do I feel the passing of time and the absence.