There is still this: a breeze coming through the window at nine as I talk on the phone to someone who is not you. There is still this: the comfort of black tea, hot, already the second cup of day two. One day at a time, like an alcoholic recovering, my friend counsels: I read in the tea a promise: things will blow over the holes left by your silence, the absence of your voice. The Canberra Times, March 2004 |
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