Читать книгу The Language of Loss - Barbara Abercrombie - Страница 27

I am distracted, disoriented, disconnected, pacing the house in circles, mindlessly retracing my steps over and over again....One afternoon I finally force myself to go looking for a new bed; it is my first and only outing toward that end, and it is an unmitigated disaster. I cannot believe I am doing this. I cannot believe I am talking to an overzealous salesman about buying a king-sized bed, which in itself sounds to me like a berserk act....

It is apparent that I cannot seriously think about buying a new bed. I cannot think about anything except the irrefutable fact that Bill is dead. The realization, which has been strangely slow in coming to me, death certificate and all—that I will never see him again, that I will never hear his voice again, that he is extinct—hits me like a roundhouse punch. I am on the ropes and there is no one here to get me back on my feet.

—RUTH COUGHLIN