It was a slow, cloudy, blustery Saturday with not much on the agenda. To make things feel out of the ordinary, we went to the mostly vacant guest room, opened the windows and let the breeze in. The hot natured boy turned on our old oscillating fan, and we laid side by side on my grandparents’ antique bed and read the afternoon away:
(he, a study on the Old Testament)
(me, a modern love story set in a quaint gossipy downtown in South Carolina.)
By the way, I for no reason at all would like to recommend you read The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion.
As the back cover indicates, it’s Didion’s memoir: She had lived and worked side by side for nearly 40 years with her husband, John Dunne, in their New York apartment, when Dunne’s sudden death propelled Didion into a state she calls “magical thinking.” “We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss,” she writes. “We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe that their husband is about to return and need his shoes.”
It’s tragic and beautiful, and the very thing I’m thinking of as my blogs always seem to linger on the topic of Ben and I and our very quiet and sweet life here alone in this apartment all day and night.
The wind made our white linen curtains sway and flap just so, making that soft rustling that was too much for Ben’s heavy eyelids. He was sound asleep after 30 minutes. I think he just needs livelier reading material.