Download Epilogue: A Memoir by Anne Roiphe PDF

By Anne Roiphe

Anne Roiphe was once no longer relatively seventy years previous whilst her husband of approximately 40 years without notice passed on to the great beyond. however it used to be no longer till her daughters positioned a private advert in a literary magazine that Roiphe started to think of the formerly unimagined threat of a brand new guy. Eloquent and astute, relocating among heartbreaking thoughts of her marriage and the urgent wishes of a brand new daily regimen, Epilogue takes us on her trip into the unknown global of existence after love.

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I like the male jostling in the room: which baseball player hit the most home runs in 1974? Someone will know. Are there enough Jewish players in all baseball history to make a team? And then they start to name them. Such and such a player had a fractured tibia four years ago and hasn’t been the same since. They seem like a pack of dogs playing in the yard, yelping and nuzzling, a smell of wet fur in the air, licking and jumping. Without H. there I feel awkward. But then I don’t. What I wait for is the moment when the quarterback swings back his arm and hurls the ball halfway down the field and his receiver, outrunning by a half a step his pursuer, puts his hands in the air and pulls down the ball, as if it was always meant to be in his arms, as if it was choreographed that way, and the crowd cheers and I feel for a moment as if anything is possible.

My task at the moment is not to f loat away, not to crumble or dry up or rot with water damage. My task is to manage. • • • My husband was a man consumed with his love for his children. I knew this before we married and had our own children. I could see it in his eyes when he looked at them. I could see it in his hands when he touched their heads. I could see it in his smile when he talked to them. He told me on our first date in great detail about buying his younger one a toy oven and how he kept it in his apartment for her when she visited because her mother would not let her take it home.

I am an escape artist who reads newspapers, books, cereal boxes. But now my concentration is cracked. Stray thoughts disturb my peace. The bird song on the nearby tree makes me close the covers of my book. This bird has an unlovely voice, his call is loud and grating but his mate appears from the other side of the garden and sits on the branch nearby. Evolution has programmed her to admire his voice. ’s voice when he spoke to patients was gentle and soothing. You could lean on that voice, you could depend on that voice.

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