My skin has the crinkled appearance of wax paper that someone has tried to flatten and reuse. I have aged in the months since my husband’s death and my diagnosis. As I approach the end of my years, I know that grief, like regret, settles into our DNA and remains forever a part of us. It makes it sound as if I misplaced my loved ones perhaps I left them where they don’t belong and then turned away, too confused to retrace my steps. Lately, though, I find myself thinking about the war and my past, about the people I lost. We understand the value of forgetting, the lure of reinvention. They think talking about a problem will solve it. Today’s young people want to know everything about everyone.
If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: In love we find out who we want to be in war we find out who we are.
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