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She just told me she wanted to.”“And she knows the full story? About you, the rules, and how you handle dalliances?”“She does. I’m just not sure she could sign up for that. Or that she should. It certainly gives me pause for all the reasons I articulated to her beforehand.”“Isn’t that up to her?”“Is it? If I think doing something is going to hurt someone else, can I do it in good conscience?”“Your discussion with Michelle.”“Yes. Exactly. And the one with Cèlia about sub-optimal choices. But this one is different, because I could just walk away if needs be.”“True,” Kara said. “Back to Siobhán. In all seriousness would you have a problem with me posing for her?”“That’s up to you, Honey. If it’s something you want to do, do it!”“Would you display it? If it was tasteful?”“That’s a different question. I suppose in our bedroom, or perhaps in my study. But what happens when a certain daughter of ours who has her mother’s exhibitionist tendencies decides SHE wants a nude portrait and wants. Too often, my friends say. So regular in my visits, I know all the grave diggers, cemetery care takers by their first names. I, the faithful old dog whose loyalty bridges from here to the homeland of the dead. I pay homage, swig down an elixir of recalled moments, the testament to a miracle of such damnable short duration. Plus one unassailable fact beyond any dispute: here is where I left her. I know the part counted her soul, her spirit is long gone. It is easy though to pretend for a short time my princess, Sarah in Hebrew, princess in my heart, is merely sleeping in our bed, the bed we cuddled in, the bed we made up in, the bed we conceived Emily or Eric in. Her soul, her spirit making her what she was, what I loved have slipped away. I know this on an intellectual level, a spiritual plane. However, a subconscious morsel of intellect, emotion, something beyond rational explanation is nurtured by a most peculiar notion: the refusal to acknowledge her gone, dead. On this little.
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