We  just returned from the moving play, The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion, reliving the year in which both her only daughter and only husband died.  I cried most of the way home.  Fontaine Syed brought Joan to life and let her anguish visibly hang out.  When I read Joan’s book during my own parents’ journey into their passing, I was an observer, unemotional.  When Fontaine became Joan, witness fell away and became identification - the difference being Joan’s angst came from wanting to keep her husband and daughter.  Mine came from wanting to help my parents die.  Joan seemed to get her strength from denying her husband’s death (magical thinking), determined he would come back and ‘would need his shoes’.  My strength came from beautiful moments with my parents and feeling/knowing that our true relationship, our spiritual beings would never be separated.  My parents did not die, even though all three of us use/used that word.  I am literally my parents physically.  Spiritually, we are still together.  They didn’t go anywhere without me.  It simply doesn’t take a 45-minute drive to get to them now.



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