Dead Fucking Cat
If love has a habit, it may be this: to outlast our understanding of it. Not by conquering every dark moment but by remaining after the darkness has had its say. By enduring where it should have broken. Love did not save my grandfather from PTSD, or from alcohol, or from the ways he left my grandmother to hold their babies and household together with grit and whatever strength she could find. But somehow the habit of love remained. Even when his mind wandered off to a far shore, some tender part of him still seemed to know the shape of their life together. Love’s habit, I suppose. In the end, I believe Clifford Shelby died faithful to Lorna in the deepest way a man can be faithful, and I believe she remained faithful to him too, all the way through. I try to picture them young, coming alive in the stories my dad tells. I see a bright room, music going, a 1940s dance floor, the smell of gin - I’m not sure why I think of gin but I do - and the two of them stepping toward one another befo...
