Almost every weekend from my chair in the old house, I’d see a white moth visit the weeds across the alley. And on my last weekend there, I opened a Yates book randomly to read the first paragraph that jumped out, and it was this:
When the men were throwing away their ration cans and lighting up cigarettes, not long after Prentice had managed to swallow his tears, it began to snow. Big, soft flakes came down at first from the darkening sky; they then thinned out into tiny points of white that whirled in the wind until the snow was flying rather than falling, making it hard to see anything except at close range, making it necessary to squint and blink to see anything at all.
Note: I’d like to think rereading all this Yates is a goodbye.
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