This is the story of the day my wife died. A memoir of sorts, this book unfurls as a totem of transcendent love that usurps performative grief with an unfussy exploration of memory, agency and the provocations of death when it stands on your doorstep.
Mauri Skinfill died on November 12, 2021 and this book was written in the immediate aftermath as a way to capture the heat, to weave beginnings and endings into revelations, while all the time acknowledging that such a short perspective is also, unavoidably, a skewed one as well.
