Becoming Abigail

Now XVIII

Landscape, in the sense of the sublime, might overwhelm the self.

Of course Abigail didn’t think that. Not in those words. As she smoked and squinted into the misty age of the river, the Thames, she thought: Thank God for maps. For a way to hold it all. She wondered how old it was. Donkey’s ears. She laughed. Mr. Ekwensi, her fifth grade teacher, always said that. Donkey’s ears. Old as. Why donkey years anyway? She lit another cigarette.

So much of love is memory, she thought, her mind tracing the outline of Derek. She had loved him so completely and he her. But what are the limits of desire? The edges beyond which love must not cross? Those were questions she had heard others discuss in these last few days. Discuss as if she was a mere ghost in their presence. Called this thing between Derek and her wrong. How could it be?

There is only so much we can do to save those we love.