August 16, 2021

The Taliban take over Afghanistan even before the last of us leaves. Twenty years of effort and bloodshed come, as far as I can tell, to nothing. 

Days of heat and hard rain. My garden is glorious. Correcting and editing In the Country of the Young. Revision of the book mostly rewriting “was” and “is” phrases, inserting contractions, trying to parry the curse of typos laid upon me. 

Maud is losing weight. I find her on the dresser, face toward the wall. Maybe it means nothing. But I hold her and I pray that pathetic prayer: oh, please, please, not my little friend. Let her outlive me. I can’t stand it. Please please please. Silly among the prayers of this disastrous world, I know. But it is my prayer. It’s the burden given to me. I was not exaggerating to say that I cannot bear it. I know, almost every other tragedy you can name is worse than this. I do not deny it. I do not contradict. I just stand with my arms around my cat, sobbing, hopeless. It cannot be helped. 

Longing for photos of my parents and their families when they were kids. 

I lose day after day not writing here. Maybe nothing happened.