His life unwound from it’s spool and spilled softly into the corners of the room, too slippery now for tape measures or for brooms. To my father, my mother and I appeared like delicate flotsam, floating across the room, fringed with lace: he feared that we would break against the walls.
Finally the whisper of satin waves filled his ears. Death, a high velvet tide, smothered him.
– Delia Falconer