‘So, time heals. Mostly. Sometimes carelessly. And in unsuspecting moments, the pain catches and reminds one of all that’s been missing. The fulcrum of what might have been. But then it passes. Winter moves into sprong and swallows return. The proximity of new skin returns to the sheets. Beauty does what is required. Jobs fulfil and conversations inspire. Loneliness becomes a mere Sunday. Scattered clothes. Empty bowls. Rotten fruit. Passing time. Bit still life in all its beauty and complexity.’

This book is full of still lives - scenes and pictures painted with words, and then captures forever in my mind. Snippets of life, distilled. Like the known paintings in museums, the narrators sometimes focus on something and make the ordinary extraordinary. Precious. The way the light hits something or someone. A smile. A gesture. The texture of food. Sounds, smells, sights. Sketched and framed. For us to see, admire if we like, but most of all to remember.