Love arrives and dies in all disguises.
-- Michael Ondaatje

The sky is dark and grey when we wheel eighty-two year old Edith’s body inside the back doors of the crematorium.  The driver stops dead when he sees me.  With stained white gloves, he hands Alan a stack of forms inside a plastic file folder.  He has an odd smile on his face as he slams the cold metal doors of the van ( Read more... )