A Handful of Earth is a lyrical novel about a woman with terminal cancer who decides to take a brief sojourn to Italy and then her own life. But she has much to accomplish in her last summer, facing a lover, an old friend, her grief-laden memory, the sea, painting, and the physical labor of farm work. Her (and the book's) ultimate task is to turn affliction into metaphor, and in doing so, achieve a sense of spiritual rebirth. At its core, A Handful of Earth is an honest and artful response to the fear that can emerge in the face of our precarious environmental position—a beautifully paused eco-lament in the form of a striking character and generous, soft, equally striking prose. A book in which you get lost and found over and over again. A book that imagines the worst and comes back singing.

<>

I only have so much time.

I don’t want to talk or tell. I left my life and lied. I said I needed to get away. I took my old backpack. The damn thing is still heavy. But it feels good to have the weight again, to take that burden back on my back. Standing in line in the airport. Those neverending lines. I hear someone say, "our terror taxes at work". Take off your shoes, your belt, your watch, your ring. Empty your pockets, remove the scarf from your neck, take off your hat. I’m surprised I don’t alert the detectors with such danger inside of me. But this is nothing anyone wants to hear about. This is better passed through the line. Perhaps better undetected—in silence and anonymity. A heightened anxiety. What happened to the excitement? What about the jitters of anticipation for the impending voyage? The champagne cocktails as the ocean liner departs, friends and families cheering and clapping on the deck below. Instead, we’re looking for bombs in baby carriages.

I’m tired.

So good to get away from the drab colors and disinfectant. From those who hold suffering in their sighs. Everyone was kind to me. Still, so good to be gone from it all. It’s no place to live, and certainly, no place to die.