From August 2005.

Summer

She knows, of course, that they must have had falls, and winters, some of the time. But her memories of him are memories of summer, soft and warm and hazy. Above all hazy, shimmering like rising heat, and blurred around the edges, just out of focus. And when she tries to sharpen him, to see him in the cool light of autumn, or the harsh bright snap of winter, he drifts out of her mind, like the wisps of smoke that curl away from her and from the candles she lights in his memory, and watches burn down to nothing.