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295 pages, Paperback
First published May 1, 2022
I wondered if only family members and ex-wives were sent flowers, and why that was. I wondered, too, why flowers at all? Why not huge bottles of vodka or books on how not to die of grief, and why not vouchers for resorts or beach shack rentals, so that a person feeling like this could just go away and be alone for as long as possible?
…I was realising, I’d never felt it fully. Not if real loss picked you up and held you by the feet and shook you, so that everything you knew came falling out of your head like spare change. Not if real loss reached into your favourite places (home, bed, car) and stripped them of all warmth and normality. Not if real loss meant that even the most innocuous comments from strangers or loved ones could reduce you to a pile of dust, somehow both incensed and demolished.
Someone who suspected approached me at the funeral. ‘I hope you don’t feel responsible,’ they said, squeezing my shoulder. What a painfully useless thing to hope. That was just about the only thing I felt.
Summertime in Italy, fresh vegetables from the garden, taking turns washing the dishes, reading to each other, learning about cherry worms. Strange how badly I could punish myself for abandoning you once, then go and do it again.