Chapter 11
I sat up quite late trying to write about Elise, convincing myself that the next glass of wine would free me from inhibitions, open a floodgate of description, vivid memories, and emotions. It didn’t quite work that way. Scraping the sediment from the bottom of the murky depths of memory was hard work. Decades ago, I was terrified when I couldn’t conjure up her image after her death. These days, I see her face so clearly it was as if I saw her yesterday. I see the detail, the colour of her hair as it caught the sunlight, her blue eyes and long lashes. I have no pictures of Elise. I do not need them.
The alcohol didn’t help. After a few sketchy notes, the electricity cut out. I reached for the nearest thing to hold on to and knocked the wine glass over. It broke and then I just
