In the window of the drawing-room there is a rush of white as you pass in which the figure of your husband is, for a moment, framed. He is watching you. His father will come, of course, and, although you had not planned it, his beard will offset your lace dress, and always it will seem that you were friends. All morning, you had prepared the house and now you have stepped out to make sure that everything is in its proper place: the railings whitened, fresh gravel on the avenue, the glasshouse crystal when you stand in the courtyard expecting the carriage to arrive at any moment. You are pleased with the day, all month it has been warm. They say it will be one of the hottest summers the world has ever known. Today, your son is one year old. Later, you will try to recall how he felt in your arms— the weight of him, the way he turned to you from sleep, the exact moment when you knew he would cry and the photograph be lost. But it is not lost. You stand, a well-appointed group with an air of being pleasantly surprised. You will come to love this photograph and will remember how, when he had finished, you invited the photographer inside and how, in celebration of the day, you drank a toast to him, and summer-time.
The wind orchestrates its theme of loneliness and the rain has too much glitter in it, yes. They are like words, the wrong ones, insisting I listen to sense. But I too am obstinate. I have white walls, white curtained windows. What need have I of the night's jet-black, outlandish ornament? What I am after is silence in proportion to desire, the way music plumbs its surfaces as straight words do the air between them. I begin to learn the simple thing burning through to an impulse at once lovely and given to love that will not be refused.