LONG WEEKS passed as 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 hurt. 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 and the insides had been exposed, the groaning innards, and revealed was not meaning, not promise, not hope, but insipidity. It spilt through my fingers. A sickening stench.
Christmas came. I moved through it an amputee. But there was smiling and laughter, also, all slick on the surface. I smiled, laughed, I’m sure. Some sort of brute then, I was callous, cruel. And life was 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, and of when I had been happiest, most passionate, about 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 about running away.
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