A husband. A wife. Three children. Last year they did not exist,
today the parents are middle-aged, one of the daughters grown. I 
live with them in their summer house by the sea. I live with them, 
but they can’t see me sharing their walks on the beach, their dinner
preparations in the kitchen. I am in pain because I know what they
don’t, that one of them has snipped the interlocking threads of their
lives and now there is no end to the slow unraveling. If I am a ghost
they look through, I am also a Greek chorus, hand clapped to
mouth in fear, knowing their best intentions will go wrong.
“Don’t,” I want to shout, but I am inaudible to them; beach towels
over their shoulders, wooden spoon in hand, they keep pulling at 
the threads. When nothing is left they disappear. Closing the book I
feel abandoned. I have lost them, my dear friends. I want to write
them, wish them well, assure each one of my affection. If only they
would have let me say good-bye.