The Book of Two Ways

by Jodi Picoult

something special about the act of observation

I believe that there are five things we need to say to people we love before they die, and I give this advice to caregivers: I forgive you. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you. Goodbye. I tell them that they can interpret those prompts any way they like, and nothing will have been left unsaid.

“Home isn’t a where, Olive. It’s a who.” There’s an ancient text, the story of Sinuhe, who flees his native country. When he leaves Egypt, he says, My heart is not in my body. To the Ancient Egyptians, for whom the heart was the site of intellect and emotion and faith, it was the same as saying: I have lost my mind. Whatever happens, whatever I gain, it is going to be tempered by loss. My heart is not in my body, I think. — THAT NIGHT I dream in blue. I imagine Win and Thane, traipsing through Paris to find the perfect pigment. I see Meret the moment she entered the world, her skin porcelain until oxygen pinked through her like a sunrise.