I came up from a nap in the evening, 5 degrees and Orion clear as bell over the woods river, and began to read this piece in the Dec 13, 2010 The New Yorker by Joyce Carol Oates. The last book I read by her was many years ago, the thin one on boxing. A pretty good one. The New Yorker for too many years now has engulfed itself with frantic, scare issue pieces on dying, modern medicine, doctoring or not, one misery after another.
This one is a love story and its loss. It's also a woman's piece, beautifully done.
I would read it.
"A Widow's Story", the New Yorker, page 70. Dec. 13, 2010
photo: Joyce Carol Oates and Raymond Smith by Bernard Gotfryd
