Sublime

I’m Miss Holocaust, 1945.

Maybe he was hoping he would come back as candy.

He was emaciated, pale shrunken skin pulled tight over weary twisted bones, holding a cloth of some kind over himself in some final instinct of modesty and self-respect.

The breeze blew like a whatever.

Kugel set off, the wind in what would have been, some years ago, his hair.

he still couldn’t bring himself to throw them away, like old medicine bottles full of remedies that never worked but that you didn’t dare throw away on the off chance they would someday do what they promised, that you’d be stricken by chance with the one disease only they could cure, two weeks after they’d been pulled off the market.

Jonah had always been a sickly child; he was spiritually gorgeous and physically a mess. Kind and generous and giving, and sneezing and coughing and diarrheic.

how could she think that dying was always more tragic than living?