I know this was something that vexed my mother. At one point, she developed a penchant for taking preposterously long walks and I occasionally accompanied her, particularly at the weekends when I could get away from work, and it was during one of these exhausting hikes that she told me her story. Confiding her innermost thoughts to me, she said it felt as though her Mortian heart, beating fit to burst from her chest, sought synthesis with the person whose life it had previously sustained. An aching, longing, restless yearning for reunion took hold of her and drove her on as she walked and walked, heedless of distance, heedless of time, heedless of physical laws and constraints. It drove her beyond rational thought, beyond feeling, beyond pain, beyond the relentless grip of circumstance, beyond herself, until she teetered on what she imagined might be the threshold of polkingbeal67's universe. And still she walked. And why? Because something haunted her. Something tortured and disturbed her for years, right up until she died. It was the thought that she might have imagined the whole thing. Literally.
Other books by David Winship
Stirring The Grass, 2013, ISBN 978-1492952725
Off The Frame, 2001, ISBN 978-1482793833
Talking Trousers and other stories, 2013, ISBN 978-1484898420
Through The Wormhole, Literally Page 35