undid. An examination of structure, agency, and luck. I gave up my signature purple eyeliner weeks before she died, after finally acknowledging I was crying it off daily. I wont teach anymore. (This, essay 1b too, turns out to be common among the grieving. But it was also because, after all the obvious tasks of mourning were completedthe service over, the bureaucratic side of death dispatched, the clothing donated, the thank-you cards writtenI had no idea what else. I dont know what Im good for.
We had by then spent two vertiginous, elongated, atemporal weeks in the.C.U. For the next forty-five minutes, as a cool blue night gradually lowered itself over downtown, I walked around looking for the truck, first on the street where I was sure Id parked, then on the nearest cross streets, and then in a grid whose scale. Moreover, although Bishop doesnt make this point explicitly, death differs from other losses not only in degree but in kind. Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt, he admonishes, kindly. The morning after the election, I cried again, missing my refugee father, missing the future I had thought would unfold. In addition to suffering from many of the usual complaints of contemporary aging (high blood pressure, high cholesterol, kidney disease, congestive heart failure he had endured illnesses unusual for any age and era: viral meningitis, West Nile encephalitis, an autoimmune disorder whose identity evaded the. Theres precious little solace for this, and zero redress; we will lose everything we love in the end. Illustration by Bianca Bagnarelli, a couple of years ago, I spent the summer in Portland, Oregon, losing things. In the course of your life, youll spend roughly six solid months looking for missing objects; here in the United States, that translates to, collectively, some fifty-four million hours spent searching a day. So expansive is his vision that it includes not just the piers and sails and reeling gulls but everyone else who makes the crossing: all those who stood at the railing watching before his birth, all those watching around him now, and all those who. Channelling the kind of advice one is often given as a child, I returned to the bookstore, calmed myself down with a cup of tea, collected my thoughts amid the latest literary débuts, and then, to the best of my ability, retraced the entire course.
Losing the War - by Lee Sandlin
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When Things Go Missing, the New Yorker
Thoughts on Aging - A Cup
Losing the Language of Love - Narratively
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