Capote memory

This is how it begins:
      "Imagine a morning in late November.  A coming of winter morning more than twenty years ago.  Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country town.  A great black stove is its main feature, but there is also a big round table and a fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it.  Just today the fireplace commenced its seasonal roar." 
..,..Oh, my, she exclaims, it's fruitcake weather!"

This is how it ends:
....A morning arrives in November, a leafless, birdless coming of winter morning when she cannot rouse herself to exclaim: " Oh, my, it's fruitcake weather!"
      And when that happens, I know it.  A message saying so merely confirms a piece of news some secret vein had already received, severing from me an irreplaceable part of myself, letting it loose like a kite on  a broken string.  That is why, on this particular... morning, I keep searching the sky.  As if I expected to see, rather like hearts, a lost pair of kites hurrying toward heaven."