Let it.
Let the microphone starve.
Let the hedge go back to being a hedge.
Let the pale-green dress live at a charity shop on a rack between prom gowns and mistakes.
Let the blazer hang.
Let Patricia’s fruit bowl stay.
Let James’s tomatoes stain.
Let June ride.
Let Claire sleep without satin, most nights.
On the other nights, when the lights come back on in her head, she will walk again.
She knows the way across the grass now.
She has practiced.
The dinner is over.
The toast is not owed.