Drinking cabernet sauvignon and reading Fitzgerald.
The Beautiful and the Damned.
I learned last week that my great-grandmother commited suicide. She traveled Europe as a dancer, fell in love with an Italian comedian, had my grandmother, and fled back to England during WWII. Then one day she took sleeping pills, stepped into a bath, and fell asleep. How could I not know such a thing about one whose existence gave me my own? And I can’t stop wondering—how much of her is in me?
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