If you’d asked her when she was thirty-one, Agnes would’ve said, somewhat sombrely, that she’d become disillusioned with life. Not with life in particular, mind you, but with her life. By the time she was thirty-four, she was feeling indifferent about it, almost to the point of being complacent. There was no explaining it, nothing she could put her finger on and say: “That’s it; that’s what the problem is!” Maybe if she would’ve taken a closer look at what life had to offer her, she might’ve understood how she’d allowed for her own melancholy to close in on her. She would’ve been able to pinpoint it, to a certain degree, or at the very least, discovered, that her feelings were more than a momentary pause, or some sort of strange interlude between life’s tragic events. And hers had been a life of tragedy as far as she was c…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Scribbler -- The Golden Years to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.