Dear V,

Some mornings the light burns a hole in my eyes that I call living. I think of you trussing river stones to your pockets, one for every unwritten book, one for Vanessa, one for Leonard and one for Vita. This happens when my daughter is away and the whole house swells like a tidal shore. Through the plate-glass windows leaf shadows flicker on the shiny parquetry floor.

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Letter to Virginia Woolf

Michelle Cahill

Volume 74, Number 1, 2015

Embrace Australia’s finest writers

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Embrace Australia’s finest writers

Fiction

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