When Torm died, Gwilan looked back over her life with him.

Thirty years, how can you say how long that is, and yet no longer than the saying of it: thirty years. How can you say how heavy the weight of thirty years is, and yet you can hold all of them together in your hand lighter than a bit of ash, briefer than a laugh in the dark.

The thirty years began in pain; they passed in peace, contentment. But they did not end there. They ended where they began.

—

Next time: “You Play the Instrument You Have.”