We All Want Impossible Things

by Catherine Newman

Why do we even do this—love anybody? Our dumb animal hearts.

So many of my assumptions about people turn out to be wrong! I try to make a mental note of this.

Death was sad and scary, but we were twenty-two years old. We were going to live forever.

A worldwide crescendo of grief, sustained day after day, and only one tiny note of it is mine.

I hear the cats up on the kitchen counter, telling Jonah and Alice their sad story about how they starved all night.

It’s been so arduous, Edi’s dying. It’s like we’ve all been digging and digging, shoveling out a hole, and we can finally stop. Only now there’s this hole here.

Here’s my etiquette advice about how to write a good thank-you note: Don’t have slept with everybody.