Monday, March 9, 2015


No misery is greater than that of wanting in the midst of enjoyments, of seeing, and desiring yet never possessing. I thought we had that one covered, the envy that nests in desire, but cannot complete it. My interest is in what comes after, the mats of orange fur I place in a plastic bag, the yellow brush we threw away. Grief is habit-breaking; still we hold to grief as habit after. Puns are the worst form of humor, my mother said, adding one about nuns, then daring me to laugh. She failed to grieve, wanting habit to be what she had lost without losing it. She gave everything away, as if objects were memories, and then she lost those. She didn't recover from her grief; it left her. She'd still make an occasional remark on the weather. It's cold today, and we're getting a new tub. Cast iron, but fragile, Louis says.

--9 March 2015

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