ABSTRACT
The author saw with awe that he had made the time of loss a meticulous, desperate, and ecstatic work. He have to harbor this loss, retain the distant and uncomprehended one he loved, and retain the forces that love generated in him, and assemble what resources are possible to be able to live. The momentum of the past falls away, his experiences and skills are helpless to deal with the death that approaches and with the time during which it is still postponed. He says his death is the reduction of his existence to nothingness. But it is too much to say that the people know what death is, that they can identify it, identify nothingness. More devastating than his death, still imminent, postponed, is the death that strikes the one he love. Love is affection, passion, abandon, pulsing with readiness to act, protect, support, and heal offenses and disillusionments.
