The Plutonic Wife

Suicide & Butterflies

In 1988 I awoke to an unfamiliar sound. A child at the time who did not know fear, I slid from the bed –
bare feet padding onto the soft, shaggy carpet that had gone out of fashion some time. The gentleness
of the carpet concealed my approach as I made my way into the dining room, and then the kitchen. The
kitchen, too, despite contemporary convention, was carpteted in an unkind, harsh brown shag. Kitchen
Carpet they called it, the style of a past time gone for some time.

Still silent and making my way forward,