On Thanksgiving I finally yielded to grim acceptance that my children—and four or five grandchildren—are permanently out of my life. Their choice, not mine. Whose fault it is, and whether I deserve it or not, are irrelevant speculations. This just IS, and apparently was meant to be.
Usually in this kind of event I’d be tapping out a torrent of curses and obscenities, but instead I was on a bus, taking shots of a deserted Newark Airport, then later of people and scenes I encountered as I wandered the streets of the city.
It’s peculiar: I felt Thursday and feel now no anger, no regret, no self-pity, no sadness, nothing. A numbed state—the ultimate defense.