Lucy
I’m in my old bed, in Lilith’s and my old room. It seems the proper place to write the last lines of this, my last story. Tomorrow I will go to town to read to the children, and when I’m done I’ll drop this journal by Arthur’s house and tell him to give it to you if you come. He won’t have to keep it long. There’s a sickness in me; I’ve felt it growing for many months. Unlike Lilith, who was dragged into death one cell at a time, I have no stomach for hospitals and tubes and dying under fluorescent lights. So I will die here, in this place that is still my favorite place, despite everything.
Matthew came by this evening. He brought pumpkin bread, his grandmother’s recipe, which I love. It’s gotten too cold to be on the porch, so we sat in the parlor, drinking tea from flowered cups
