“When I got off the plane, after eleven hours of travel and forty years away, the man took my passport and asked me the purpose of my visit, I wrote in my daybook, “To mourn,” and then, “To mourn try to live,” he gave me a look and asked if I would consider that business or pleasure, I wrote, “Neither.” “For how long do you plan to mourn and try to live?” “For as long as I can.” “Are we talking about a weekend or a year?” I didn’t write anything. The man said, “Next.”
