I'm reading Joan Didion's account of the year following her husband's unexpected death. The first 49 pages are heartbreaking and compelling. I don't know what the rest of the book entails, but her sense of loss so far is nearly overwhelming.
Two thoughts persist as I read. One, Didion must have survived the ordeal, or she wouldn't have written the book. So many of us endure our own tragedies, live with our own heartbreaks, it is heartening to know that we can survive them and – maybe, someday – be healed and perhaps thrive again. Two, I am keenly more aware of the enormous value of the people I love, and the reminder that time is short, and that I need to do something every day to ensure that we take pleasure in the treasure of our time together, that we enjoy that magic in our everyday.
