A coda to my mother's diary, her sole surviving item. Its leather-bound surface was charred by the flames, which, according to those who were present, resembled enormous cloven tongues rising up from the earth, licking savagely out towards salvation just out of reach. So I am told; I can imagine the dark heavy clouds in the vespertine sky, bloated with a brood of our economy, black and blue like my buffeted mother, the impending squall to bury in hail the serpentine orgy of spirits, just moments too late.
