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041206
Cracking the spine on Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking after a family member has been diagnosed with breast cancer is a bad idea.
It's the tenacity of time that pains me, its stark refusal to allow but a moment of respite, of condolence. Instead there is the persistent hobgoblin of familiarity-my lover's former bandmate on the L train, the insistent pickup artist in Union Square, the friend of an old flame in front of the grocery store, the next-door neighbor. I am pushed forward into time; I am older, if but by fragments.
Soon everyone who raised me will be gone.
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