I have known, for almost all of my life, that people, no matter how beautiful, how gifted, how beloved, vanish. That the universe is a hazardous and uncertain place.
October 1960. I am seven. My mother and brother are gone.
October 2008. I am fifty-five. My son is gone.
Baring war, holocaust, or natural disaster, what are the chances?
Perhaps I am intended to uncover a new solidarity with survivors of the foregoing: war, etc.
But I can be forgiven, I think, for at the moment anticipating the future with little more than dread.