She walks among the loveliness she made,Between the apple-blossom and the water—She walks among the patterned pied brocade,Each flower her son, and every tree her daughter.
It was like a quilt, a handmade, patterned quilt laid out for this man to take his final steps across and then lie down and die on: a quilted deathbed. It struck me that the world, or chance, or maybe death itself if you can speak of such a thing, must have loved this man in some way to prepare for him such a richly textured fabric to gather and wrap him up in.tom mccarthy
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