I think about loss alot these days. I read about it. I draw it. I think it. I think of his loss and her’s, less recent. His plays on my mind. Why? I don’t know him, not really. And when I did, albeit it briefly, it was thirty years ago. And yet. I do feel it. I feel his loss, or at least, what I think that loss might feel like. A daughter, gone. Grandchildren bereft. I think he has a capacity to feel deeply. And that is what I tune into. How does he makes sense of it? How does he get himself out of bed each day and face the up and down banality of it without her somewhere presence? I read of hers. I didn’t know her. I know a little of her through her writing. She is foreign to me. Her location is not mine. She is exotic. Sharp-edged. Fascinating. I hope she doesn’t lose both.
