You Count the Clutter and Untimely Death Away

Marcy had been born on a Wednesday and died on a Thursday, fifteen years and eleven months later. For a while after her death, every Thursday had felt like a milestone. After some time, however, the counting stopped. Rossley carried three notebooks in her purse, but she no longer knew her original intention for each. They had become three depository of scribbled words in the same category, notes to self. It was the most love-sided epistoloric relationship. But that self was an unresponsive and irresponsible correspondent.