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At the last words  
At the last words  
我的网络日志
So I write him an e-mail 2016-04-17 20:13:06

I closed my eyes and saw my mother, ten years old on the family farm in Minnesota, working like a hired hand, raising her younger brothers, wearing the clothes of her older sister, saving dimes to get herself out of there . . .

"And you have to understand how much I love your father," she concluded.

My mother has made choices in her life, as we all must, and she is at peace with them. I can see her peace. She did not cop out on herself. The benefits of her choices are massive-- a long, stable marriage to a man she still calls her best friend; a family that has extended now into grandchildren who adore her; a certainty in her own strength. Maybe some things were sacrificed, and my dad made his sacrifices, too--but who amongst us lives without sacrifice?

And the question now for me is, What are my choices to be? What do I believe that I

deserve in this life? Where can I accept sacrifice, and where can I not? It has been so hard for me to imagine living a life without David in it. Even just to imagine that there will never be another road trip with my favorite traveling companion, that I will never again pull up at his curb with the windows down and Springsteen playing on the radio, a lifetime supply of banter and snacks between us, and an ocean destination looming down the highway. But how can I accept that bliss when it comes with this dark underside-- bone-crushing isolation, corrosive insecurity, insidious resentment and, of course, the complete dismantling of self that inevitably occurs when David ceases to giveth, and commences to taketh away. I can't do it anymore. Something about my recent joy in Naples has made me certain that I not only can find happiness without David, but must. No matter how much I love him (and I do love him, in stupid excess), I have to say goodbye to this person now. And I have to make it stick.

It's November. We haven't had any communication since July. I'd asked him not to get in touch with me while I was traveling, knowing that my attachment to him was so strong it would be impossible for me to focus on my journey if I were also tracking his. But now I'm entering his life again with this e-mail.











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he dropped with it 2016-01-26 17:59:38


"'Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide,and his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are tobe answered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race,to answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a signthat I do it. In the days when all these things are to be answeredfor, I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer forthem separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that Ido it.'

"Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with hisforefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with thefinger yet raised, and as it dropped, and I laidhim down dead.

"When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found herraving in precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that thismight last for many hours, and that it would probably end in thesilence of the grave.

"I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the sideof the bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated thepiercing quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness orthe order of her words. They were always 'My husband, my father, andmy brother! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,eleven, twelve. Hush!'

"This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her.I had come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when shebegan to falter. I did what little could be done to assist thatopportunity, and by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like thedead.

"It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long andfearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assistme to compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was thenthat I knew her condition to be that of one in whom the firstexpectations of being a mother have arisen; and it was then that Ilost the little hope I had had of her.

"'Is she dead?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as theelder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.














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