I'm currently reading a posthumous collection by an editor I worked with for years. I'm part of a group crafting a roundtable review in honour of her life's contributions.

It's a strange thing, though, to read the work of someone as impatient with their own output as you are of your own. I want to chuckle with her over it - but of course, she's gone now.

Only the work remains, and a churning sense of kinship, lost before fully found.

Say the things you need to, to people while they're here. 🕯