Death, Of Course, Is A Refuge. It's

When I Reached Fort Binjemma, For Example, Where My Grandfather Was Stationed For A While, The Whole Victorian Fort Was Decaying. Barbed Wire Surrounded It, Spray Paint On The Ancient Walls Claimed It As Private Property, And The Moat Where My Grandfather And His Men Had Grown Crops - In Desperation As The Siege's Hunger Bit - Was Completely Overgrown With Bushes And Trees.

Still Shaking, In The Pew, I Understood That It Isn't The Dead We Cry For. We Cry For Ourselves, And I Didn't Deserve My Own Pity.

The Ways In Which We Are Able To Express Courage Also Depend On The Hand Life Deals Us.

That Is How We Lived, Happily And Without Hope. I Was Very Young Then, And I Did Not Miss Having A Future Because I Did Not Know I Was Entitled To One.

My Paternal Grandmother Drove Ambulances During The Regional Blitz, In Birmingham.