When he died the late ’50s split-level bungalow stopped breathing. But his widow preserved the place, nicely, like a curator might so that by the time I visited, it was a time capsule containing things from happier times. I met Queenie through her son, himself a solitary, acquired taste. She was lovely, and I felt ashamed for my voyeurism. When she passed fifteen years ago the house began to putrefy. The son is now mad; his sister madder still. They buried her ashes by the dried and cracked shell of her once-lovely lily pond, then they dug her up again.
here to see more of his work.
in light of autumn cemetery - *d*ried moth wings over morning dew grave Poe prose buried shaded hue seek mother's love ghostly spirit tender hearts naturally inherit uprooted bricks ...
6 hours ago