There’s a politics to memory, in what is remembered, how it is remembered. I’m thinking about love when love is done with us, how memories won’t save us. But memories humanise, even when we’re out of love.
There’s the feeling, slight, that there was something more and that we do not now look as monstrous as we imagined we were when we left or were left.
I think the high points in my life will be each woman I’ve loved, in their bequests, their imprint on the paper of this world. These loves are the lines on which I make legible my story ongoing to ends I know nothing of.