Second Bloom
Clara in her last year of primary school, moving toward whatever comes next, with the geology of everything else as her foundation and the small notebook always in her pocket.
Rosa, who is sixty-two, makes bowls and goes to ceramics twice a week and has Pep, and has Begur, and has Japan in her memory, and has a granddaughter who calls her Ava and means it in every language.
The work. The Tuesday meetings. The Eixample office where the morning light comes in at the angle that is exactly right. Cristina across the table, still making the bowl, still adding the next layer.
She closes the notebook.
The November morning outside the window is doing what November mornings do — grey, specific, entir
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