Over the years, I read this entry in her diary—the only one Natasha allowed me to read—a thousand times, and usually it puts a smile on my lips, but oh, not now, not anymore. For some reason her words have taken on a different meaning, a darker one, which I sense now for the first time, in the context of her turn for the worse.
Holding the paper makes my hands tremble. I prefer to attribute it to my age, not to anguish.
The night has been long, and long have I been waiting for her to awaken, so I can prepare her. I need to ready both of us for that head X-ray exam, which until yesterday I have been reluctant to schedule. It will, I’m afraid, result in the dreaded diagnosis which neither she nor I want to hear. But at this point, what choice do I have? Her condition can no longer be ignored. It is time to find out the name of it.
Back to that page from her diary. After three decades the ink is faded, and the paper—yellowed and crinkly. I can read it still, mostly by touching the indentations and combining what I feel with what has already been committed to memory. I close my eyes to hear her, whispering out of the papery rustle.
I am in awe of what is happening to me. I am scared of it and at the same time, I find myself elated.
Being elated is something of the past for both of us. But like the way she used to be I find myself scared and in awe. Where we’re headed is yet unknown, except for one thing: her path and mine are just about to diverge.
Oh what gorgeous writing. This is a deeply moving story of love, of World War II and rationing and the music of that era... The author's own passion draws you in, makes you feel every wrench of what the characters feel. This powerful, poignant story is absolutely mesmerizing."
- J.A. Schneider, Author
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