When people ask her what she does these days, increasingly
infrequently since she affords them only rare occasions to accost her,
she replies that she’s sequestered. Partly code for saying they are
prying and she’s feeling pestered. She’s not in mourning for her life
like in that Chekhov play – she’s glad she’s not a wife to any man –
whatever span of time remains to her seems neither too much
nor too little. But she loves to fiddle with the syllables of words
and she enjoyed encountering what seemed to her an onomatopoeic
whisper in the verb sequester – it bore the sound and somehow scent
of what it meant – and thought, oh, that’s what I would like to do.
And so she followed through: she’s now “sequestered.” When
she finds another syllable to love, which signifies an attitude, she may
decide to take its latitude on next. She isn’t the least perplexed.