It’s an engagement ring. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. I’m like a creature just wakened up. “There wasn’t. My boys buy them with beads or bolts of calico of mine. ‘Very wise,’ he commented, slightly relaxing his arm. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray.
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