The sacrament? Yes, in a manner of speaking, little mote, that’s why I have come. Take my hand. Ignore the smell of disinfectant and the beeping monitors – they have their places, but later. Go back, little mote. Remember…

…the blue of cornflowers on Cornish cliffs when you were eight years old, the exact colour of your mother’s eyes. Feel the astonishment anew…

…the smell of his hair as he let it down from his turban, how it was so long it fell over your bodies like a rippling black curtain, silken against your skin…

…how red the blood on the road was as you lay in the wreckage of the car, bright blood on jagged metal…

…the sound of your daughter laughing, a bright gurgle as though sheer joy had suddenly become sound…

…the sharpness of the pain as you stood by his grave. How it felt as though the very heart had been torn from your chest…

…the smell of dust and lavender wax in your office on a summer afternoon…

…the scent of candle flame and sugar on her third birthday…

…the feel of clean sheets…

…the scent of tomatoes ripening in sunlight…

…the crack of an egg on the side of a mixing bowl…

…wet sand and the sting of cold salt water…

…a chestnut glossy in the hand…

…cardamom on his breath as you kiss…

…daffodils…

No, little mote, I have not got bigger. I have it all, safe. And now you are small enough to be cupped in my hands and borne away.

No fear, little mote. Nothing is ever truly lost. Time to rest now.

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