دانلود رمان انگلیسی “شیوا”

I AM THE object of pity here. The fragile. The bereaved. So delicate they expect me to fall to pieces. Only, my pieces look better when taken apart. Laid out like shards of colored glass for some avant-garde mosaic. The less sense I make, the more like myself I feel. After all, loose fragments can be used to make great art—tastefully contorted in a mock-up of beauty. Nothing about me has ever been tasteful though. Or beautiful. Even the hurt feels too dull to satisfy. In that regard, I guess I was already prepared to lose him—had lost him, over and over again through the years. The bonds of family stretch like a worn-out sweater. Shape. Style. Feel. Until that sweater is unrecognizable in its shabbiness. This is what we’d become to one another. Cheap sweaters destined for the rag bin. Not worth a yard sale or a donation basket. Twice now I’ve smile-frowned at the same set of cousins I can’t quite name. That’s such a funeral-ish thing, isn’t it? Smiling and frowning at the same time. As if to say good for you, you’re getting through it, but in a way that does not convey enthusiasm unbefitting the occasion. If they circle back around the room again for another peek at my black eye, I swear to God I’m going to give them a hearty thumbs-up. Just puff my cheeks out and expand my grotesqueness like a goddamn puffer fish. They’re here to gawk. It’s the only reason they’re here—the reason most people are here. To get a glimpse of the wreck—the Drucker who made it out alive. Wahoo! Cheaper than a movie. Less tactless than standing by the side of the road staring at a totaled car, shoving mouthfuls of popcorn in your face—not that there’s much difference, save for the ceremony. No flashing lights here. No sirens. Only the quiet dignity of dissolution. The Mourner’s Kaddish as we say goodbye.