The best I remember of Sylvia is her tiny fingers, gripping the grills of the train window as if they were my hands. We never let go of each other; imagining intimate mangroves around us in all our wanders. My hands stayed in the pocket, but my heart clenched as the train slowly rolled out of the station. Her eyes became the trail of a river that taught me how to canoe through dreams. Even on the day the birds hooted from trees beside her hospital bed, we saw ourselves among the kids. There were no more games left to play.
I honestly don’t understand this one, but the writing is marvelous!
I found this story a little frustrating–genuine power diminished a bit by too many adjectives, crowding out some of the loveliest images. The hardest thing, I think, in growing in one’s craft is developing the ruthlessness to prune out beautiful words that don’t advance the story.
I loved the story. Has anyone ever tried to understand everything a great writer says. Some of the greatest are obscure. We all have a lot to learn but this author will surely get there. I agree with the other two critiques but they come over as criticism and they seem to be about the writers more than a ‘critique’, which should always be constructive. Make up your understanding. To me it meant the loss of a beloved child!