of the paper holder, its inner cardboard roll disappeared,
and had been hung deliberately but without explanation
just before she too was no more. This is only a bathroom
where domestic dramas rarely unfold in the way the rest
of the roll had been unfurled – I have to guess - yet leaving
that page behind delivered a message if I was able to read
along the line. Sitting there, it became another dilemma.
Perhaps it had been in the decision to treat ourselves: the
quilt of its texture an elaboration we had not needed in our
time before this, and on reflection the money could have
been better spent on a magazine with dull stories about the
sudden disasters in other people’s lives, or on those maps
in the charity shop about places nearby we hadn’t visited.