Reading the Sunday New York Times is my church, a sacred ritual of discovering the world as those dear reporters and editors see it. I savor their words in every section like I savor the chicken and squash I roast for lunch, like the butter cream icing on my tender-crusted apple dumpling.
Except the back of the Style section -- the wedding announcements.
I used to savor them, too. Maybe more than butter cream. They’re kind of like obituaries in reverse. I even thought about working them into an art project. Until their cheerfulness felt like false optimism, like icing without the butter, and I found myself composing obits on the marriages.
And that’s not how I want to spend my remaining precious breaths. Unless for my next project, there’s something there…
Except the back of the Style section -- the wedding announcements.
I used to savor them, too. Maybe more than butter cream. They’re kind of like obituaries in reverse. I even thought about working them into an art project. Until their cheerfulness felt like false optimism, like icing without the butter, and I found myself composing obits on the marriages.
And that’s not how I want to spend my remaining precious breaths. Unless for my next project, there’s something there…
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