Fuschia had to die to gain new vigour, in shoots alongside the dead matter I removed. Those fresh and tiny green leaves inspire hope and kindle a sense of beauty, periodically forgotten. I don’t know if and when it will flower again, but if it does, those flowers will be pristine as a day of creation. Nourished by the soil, sun, the water I take there every day or few days, tending the grave. I planted: lemongrass, begonia, and fuschia, and the fuschia did not take well to its new place; and it was the most exposed of the three. I was prepared to allow it to go, even to uproot it, but now it is in the limelight of my favour. I take a stone to the grave too, usually. The moment of choosing the stone from the ground on my walk there has unexpectedly become significant, almost an impediment, unless I simply allow this too to matter.

And there, it is Succot, the first intermediate day, its rearrangements of matter unlike those of Pesach. One gross, one refined, one might say, though I dislike that polarity, that construction. Things, institutions, colours, words, music and everything can be different without being opposites or arranged on a spectrum. Perhaps even left and right in politics. Perhaps even rich and poor.