This is an excerpt from the book I’m writing called, The Accident.
There are days when she can barely get out of bed. Days when she drinks her coffee and goes to therapy and walks through the Metropolitan Museum of Art, on auto-pilot. Days when she finds peace in small things such as watching the cat on the windowsill. Or when she wants to cut through the quiet of her life, break out of it as if it were a box nailed shut. Days when she would like to join her family, even if death is the absence of everything. And days when she is willing to accept her life, diminished as it is. Some days it feels like an afterlife, and she thinks of it as such. Thinks that this is where the whole notion of purgatory must have originated because she knows she is not alone in feeling between worlds, that loss is part of being a human being and that even if she had not lost them in an accident, she’d be aging and find the world increasingly strange (as the aging do.) Eventually she would lose her life and the world, even if she had not experienced what she has experienced. Eventually, everyone loses everything. There are days when thoughts like this are a comfort.