Love in the Age of Losing
Finding happiness in the wake of personal, professional, and national loss
The space at the end of our block was empty when I moved in. Nine months later, it was a falafel place that was already in the process of becoming a bodega; cardboard boxes of Haribo gummies and far-fetched flavors of multigrain chips were stockpiled along brand-new blue metal racks. I cannot tell you about the time in between, only that I looked up one cold, gray day and there was fog on the windows and a hand-drawn sign taped to the door that advertised free Wi-Fi.
My girlfriend Lauren and I frequented the bodega around the corner during our time working for Hillary Clinton’s 2016 presidential campaign. It was open 24/7, and we’d shuffle in close to midnight to buy tomato paste and chickpeas and, for a brief spell, two or three plain grilled chicken patties — Marly the dog was on a strict chicken-and-rice diet after a string of brief yet disgusting illnesses, and I had quickly grown tired of standing over the stovetop in the dark, boiling the frozen chicken breasts that we had to trek to the Super Foodtown on Fulton to find. The blanched meat, tough and sterilized, reminded me of the Midwest and my sturdy, red-cheeked mother, whose evenings during my childhood seemed to consist largely of waiting for water to boil. Not mine, I decided, and back to…
