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The winter of love is a cellar of empty bins / In an orchard soft with rot.”The soft with rot part sounded so familiar, but it took a few moments before she made the connection as to why. “He was mumbling that to me,” she said. A clear image of Marcus, gaunt and pale in his dining room deathbed, lit up her brain. She hadn’t thought of him like that in so long. “The last time I saw him.””He said it was you,” Jackson said, suddenly looking at somber as she felt. “You were going to be those empty bins, once he died. And it was maybe the saddest thing I had ever heard.
