I Know I Don't Need Him, But

From My Childhood, I Remember A Tiny Old Woman Named Mary, Made Pale And Almost Translucent By Time. Mary's Childhood Memories Extended Back To The Confusing And Violent Finale Of The Civil War, And She Told Stories Of Brutal Murders In Those Days And Refused To Name Some Of The Killers, As If Dead Men Might Still Be Prosecuted In The Late 1950s.

Ask Her What She Craved, And She'd Get A Little Frantic About Things Like Books, The Woods, Music. Plants And The Seasons. Also Freedom.

It's A Good Thing War Is So Terrible Or Else We'd Get To Liking It Too Much.

I've Never Been Very Attached To Genre Labels And Never Set Out Intentionally To Write Historic Fiction. Besides, What You Consider Historic Depends On How Far Back Your Memory Extends.

He Had Been Alone In The World And Empty For So Long. But She Filled Him Full, And So He Believed Everything That Had Been Taken Out Of Him Might Have Been For A Purpose. To Clear Space For Something Better.