Friday, October 23, 2015
Some people called to check up on me, cousins, aunts, to make sure I was doing okay and to tell me again how much they had always loved my parents. On the surface of it, I was doing okay. I even finished the first draft of my book yesterday. Daddy, with his impeccable work ethic, would have approved. Then I went out for cappuccinos with a woman I hadn't seen in 26 years. We worked at Life magazine together back in the day, then she moved to Manila, Cambodia, Australia, finally settling in Bangkok where she raised her son as a single mother and went unapologetically gray, then white-haired. She looks like a Renaissance painting, stunning really. We immediately fell into sharing our lives, as if no time at all had passed, and as if, to tell the truth, we had been closer back then than I'd realized.
There were so many lovely nuances to our reunion, but I don't have the energy to delve. I'll only say that seeing her helped bring me back to myself, helped me conjure who I was, who I can be. I need that right now—to know that I mattered. I feel sort of blah recently, everything blunted, removed. I get this weariness of myself sometimes, and I begin to plot geographic escapes, like holing up in a beautiful room in Paris and writing myself out of the sadness. Maybe I'll book an Airbnb and go edit my book on the Seine.
(As my friend, who edits UN documents, said yesterday, "The work we do, we can do anywhere. We're free.")