Jan 9, 2006

I held it together in the last hours. I did not weep or cling.

Both cats are in my lap, or close as they can be, eyeballing crows on the neighbor’s roof. Jake squeaks like a metronome every few seconds. He’s crying for me; my kibble-bribed mourner, a tabby red in tooth and claw.

For distraction, I grabbed The Time Traveler's Wife, a holiday pressie from Mac-guru Jez Smith. Big mistake. Colossal. Because the novel starts thus:

"It's hard being left behind. I wait for Henry, not knowing where he is, wondering if he's okay. It's hard to be the one who stays.

"I keep myself busy. Time goes faster that way.

"I go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. I take walks. I work until I'm tired. I watch the wind play with the trash that's been under the snow all winter. Everything seems simple until you think about it. Why is love intensified by absence?"

I read the whole thing anyway, in one greedy gulp. Other people's problems are much more palatable – and prosy – than my own prosaic ones.

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