Daisy, I say, I am worried about you because you are old and there are things you do not know about. Daisy looks at me blankly (for it really is the case that she does not know). Perhaps she cannot decide – but, then, she is not bothered by decision. Eventually, she lies down. Nothing closes for her, which explains all the trouble with doors and sentences. She has the quality of a fact. And because of that, everything acquires a dark luminosity. We step onto a beach under a big sky. This is a gift, she says, from me to you. Of course, she doesn’t say that. She cannot even think it. But she offers it. She bears the weight of it. She carries us into the open.