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264 pages, Kindle Edition
Published September 12, 2023
I loved being an observer, not a participant. I got a nice shot of two old guys who reminded me of Hardy’s grandfather and mine, both named Horace. Heads close together as they talked, probably because they were deaf, their intent communion looked like a Fellini movie. I wrote down their names and hoped/prayed the photo would turn out.
Whatever a life ever means, in the end it’s a set of stories you tell yourself, or whoever will listen. Old Mabel, wanting to be left alone out there in the woods — I had always imagined that it was better to have company, better for people to be together than alone. But then I thought of Mrs. Benson, with her broken arm. And Jim Miller, finding that difficult old maid stiff and strange in the bed, and that became his life from then on. With her. I thought about my own parents, and Hardy’s. We live, as we dream — alone together.
People in Medway helped me, were kind even when I was blanked out with fear and grief. I made a few good friends. But I was always standing to one side looking on, seeing what was none of my business. The things that were my business stand out in strong relief: Hardy and the state of his mind and body and soul; my child, who needed my good attention; and in a sideways sense my self, standing and observing me, just as I did the world.