The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah
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. Todayâ€™s young people want to know everything about everyone. They think talking about a problem will solve it. I come from a quieter generation. We understand the value of forgetting, the lure of reinvention.
Lately, though, I find myself thinking about the war and my past, about the people I lost.
It makes it sound as if I misplaced my loved ones; perhaps I left them where they donâ€™t belong and then turned away, too confused to retrace my steps.
They are not lost. Nor are they in a better place. They are gone. 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.
I have aged in the months since my husbandâ€™s death and my diagnosis. My skin has the crinkled appearance of wax paper that someone has tried to flatten and reuse. My eyes fail me oftenâ€”in the darkness, when headlights flash, when rain falls. It is unnerving, this new unreliability in my vision. Perhaps thatâ€™s why I find myself looking backward. The past has a clarity I can no longer see in the present.
I want to imagine there will be peace when I am gone, that I will see all of the people I have loved and lost. At least that I will be forgiven.
I know better, though, donâ€™t I?………………………………..
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|Epub||May 30, 2020|
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