As I write Joan Sutherland is singing the Mad Scene from Thomas' Hamlet, now on repeat: it suddenly swept me up (or down) and back, as I sang along with her...and I was very sad. Weeping. I haven't listened to opera or Herself for a very, very, very long time. Because how does one describe it? The voice as soul, as unbidden power, and its leave-taking, and reasons. I'm not really maudlin'. It's just been a very long time since I listened to Joan Sutherland singing everything that I sang.
They smell as lilacs ought. Which is the way the pale pink one in Bloemfontein smelled, at the front door.