LXXI.

For months there were no words, just getting through the day, and days and days of crying and hating myself for crying. But there was also a sharpening, a fierce flaking away of what was not necessary. A sense that whatever time was still mine should be spent, lavishly, on what mattered most, walks and conversations and meals shared. There didn’t seem to be much need to see anyone who wasn’t an old friend or a good one, or to be seen anyplace or to be able to say I did this or did that or was there.

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