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The Utter Infallibility of Love

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Courtenay looking to the right on the anniversary of her grandmother's death.

Yesterday was the first anniversary of my grandmother’s death. I have been in mourning for one year, a year tumultuous on its own terms, and plentiful with good silences. Above all things, it has been a year of longing suffused with the knowledge of absolute absence.

What makes life so sweet is its limits— you’re only handed over a certain amount of days and hours and seconds; a selection of birthdays and a spread of Christmases (or Chanukkahs or Ramadans or Holi Days); and enough sunsets to count across your hands eight or nine times over if you’re lucky.

But you never know how many of anything you’re going to get, so you try to savor each one without ennobling the fear of death— too much Death Fear dished out on a plate will make anyone quake.

So yesterday, I spoke a prayer to myself over and over again. I enrobed myself in exterior silence for most of the morning and the afternoon, and this is what I said to my grandmother as the light in my office moved from one wall to the other over a course of eight hours—

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

—until the words tumbled and tinkled like river water over the rocky bend I carry in my heart.



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