“From the front of the meetinghouse room, creamy April New England light fans through the tall windows. Helen looks out at all the faces for whom Anna is their Anna. A my Anna for each person sitting in the main pews and for those that fill the upstairs balcony, that wide kaleidoscope of Annas. That shaping through time, that shifting specific story she’s been for everyone in this room.
And she was, also of course, none of those Annas.”
A story of friendship across time. And also of dying.
(I finished this one while sitting by the fire. That’s my poor snapshot evidence.)
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