The following is next in a series of excerpts from my journal, written during the last year of Dave's life.
Reading Reynolds Price and wanting to write again. Must strike a
balance between living life and writing about it, even in illness. He
did it. If I want to, I can, too.
We had a visitor today, someone we rarely see, but who is needier
even than we, and on a day Dave felt less than great. The friend
intimated that he could tell how hard things are without me saying
anything. How bad do I look, anyway? I finished reading A Whole
New Life as he was walking up the driveway, thinking I felt
pretty good. Don’t get that. And it doesn’t much matter. This is
our life and I thank you for it, God.
Dreamed later about being hurt, about having to meet people in
public who make me sad and awkward. Everybody asks me about how we’re
doing and I’m still trying to figure out how to be honest and
decent at the same time.
image: theodysseyonline.com
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