...come back and haunt me.
I’m reading the new Abigail Dean book. Not the second one which was published in February.
Why, you ask, haven’t I read that one already? We’ve been waiting a while, after all.
A variety of reasons, I suppose. Even though set in England it involved a school shooting and I wasn’t really in the mood for that at the time. And you weren’t there to talk to about it.
No, this is her third book. And yes I will go back and read the other one when I’m done, as I remember how much I enjoy her prose and the people in her books who manage to survive terrible things and go on. Am I one of them now? Have I survived?
I intend to reread Girl A after that, even though knowing the end is more devastating now. But now I am jealous of it too, having the ghost of someone you love there, speaking to you as they always did.
This is one of those days where I sit and stare out the window at the changing leaves and it seems impossible that you are no longer in this world. Tree of heaven, blue skies, nothingness.
There is nothing profound to say. I miss you.