LONG WEEKS passed. We put Ginny's affairs in order.
Her house went on the market and I moved in to mourn on my own. I was angry and bitter, full of sadness and pain. Or maybe none of those things. Maybe, a holed, flawed instrument, I felt nothing at all. I didn’t know. It was both, and it was neither. However a great rending had occurred. I knew that. Felt that.
The seams of The Contract had ripped, the groaning innards, and spilling through was not meaning, not promise, not hope, but insipidity. It coated my skin. A sickening stench.
Christmas came. I moved through it an amputee. But there was smiling and laughter, also, all slick and slippery on the surface. I smiled, laughed, I’m sure. Some sort of brute then, I was callous, cruel, and life laid flayed bare and meaningless, and I began to sift.
My last conversation with Ginny haunted. It was never far from my mind. Her unfinished design. The close of one chapter in her life, the beginning of the next. Both unwritten now. I thought about the passage of time and of loved things lost, and if, as Dylan Thomas once wrote, I would go gentle into that good night, or rage against the dying of the light.
I thought about not getting to say goodbye, of when I had been happiest, most passionate, of how I could live - truly live - before it was too late to do so. For mine was an epic saga, I’d known since I was young.
I thought of running away.
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