s p i r a l l i n g
Mrs Rapallo fingered salt,
reading in it some Arabian mystery
that she would very likely not tell.
Theodora wrote a poem about the letters. She hadn't yet attempted to have it published, but holding it in her hands, and in her memory meant more to her than almost anything.
the letters every object in existence, every sign that stands in place of some meaning or other, every beloved thing, stares at me, shining and empty as all vocabulary launches into the atmosphere ... beautiful, thick and rich like liquid marble, then crystal thin ... the fading noises of cities in the evening, in the sunset, and forever... As I watch from my imaginary roof-top, all the things I have known in my life form an ever-widening circle upon the horizon and bow, formally, before moving ever outwards with great ceremony, trailing semi-invisible waving banners and garlands of colour shimmer without end upon the sea.
For Theodora, her decoration of the letters on the gravestone, had been her first poem. Often they visited her in dreams to encourage her not to give up, not to despair.