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She closed her eyes and thought of Simon, now gone, now nothing more than a memory and ashes wind-strewn across a field. Looking into the past was like looking into a long tunnel, and she knew the tragedy of his wounding and his passing no longer touched her with such an immediate rawness. It was more akin to an ache that came and went, like a breeze that lifts a lace curtain back from the window, then sets it down again. Now, it was as if those jagged and painful memories of him were clothing she no longer needed, that she had laundered, dried and placed in a sealed box in the attic. She
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