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like a gift from heaven, I had to ask her to repeat the

sentence because I didn’t understand what she was saying.

The problem occurs when what you most feared happens

and you don’t die. This proves really surprising. You’re not

yet thinking of killing yourself, because, naturally, you

imagine that dying of love is a slow, slow thing, and you’re

waiting for the death throes to kick in. The shock is so great

that at times you have to look at yourself in the mirror to

believe it: You’re amazed that your body has emerged

unscathed from such inner devastation. I catch a glimpse of

myself pushing a cart in a shopping center with mirrored

walls, and the contrast between what I see and what I feel is

striking. Apparently, I am a living a person who walks

around and pushes a cart. My face too is quite normal: a

distraught grimace, true, but it’s a whole face, not falling to

pieces, not decomposing. The body is here too, solid, still

standing. And even though I steady myself on the cart, I

appear to be the one who is pushing it. Mirrors are

deceptive, they silence pain. The body silences pain. The

body is preserved. How can such a divorce exist? How can a

stupid little blood clot kill you and yet grief like this does