There was a nature table at school, just in front of the naughty chair. The two are still entwined for her. She’ll try to appreciate the mossy bark her daughter collects for her but instead she’ll get a picture of the teacher’s angry face. The hopeless loneliness of it all.
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She gathered objects in such a way that they would again make sense to her; placing bags of flour in fields of wheat, honey inside hives, and glue on horses' behinds. Eventually, she would redistribute all her material goods to the places from which they originated. Tiny reunions surrounded her.
Imogen collected bark from dead trees, held it over a flame until it was black as night or bibles, and biscuit-crisp. Ground, ground to soot then, fine as talc or dust, and mixed with lamp oil and gelatin and musk. The ink Imogen used to write him letters of spite.
Oooh, I'm liking these!
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