What is the meaning to this reading?The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah:
If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: In love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are. Today’s young people want to know everything about everyone. They think talking about a problem will solve it. I come from a quieter generation. We understand the value of forgetting, the lure of reinvention.
Lately, though, I find myself thinking about the war and my past, about the people I lost.
Lost.
It makes it sound as if I misplaced my loved ones; perhaps I left them where they don’t belong
and then turned away, too confused to retrace my steps.
They are not lost. Nor are they in a better place. They are gone. As I approach the end of my
years, I know that grief, like regret, settles into our DNA and remains forever a part of us.
I have aged in the months since my husband’s death and my diagnosis. My skin has the crinkled
appearance of wax paper that someone has tried to flatten and reuse. My eyes fail me often—in the darkness, when headlights flash, when rain falls. It is unnerving, this new unreliability in my vision. Perhaps that’s why I find myself looking backward. The past has a clarity I can no longer see in the present.
