But she’d let go of her family. Her roots. Her friends, her brothers, her son, her husband, sham though the marriage had been. She swallowed. She’d lost her mother, didn’t even get closure at a funeral. She’d lost her church, eventually her faith.
Work. She’d had her work. Work made sense. Work introduced her to all kinds of interesting people, interesting ideas. It satisfied her curious mind, magpie mind, she jeered to herself, because it chased after every shiny thing that crossed her path. Journalism, though, rewarded magpies. She’d gone to the White House Correspondent’s Dinner, resplendent in a long black gown, and hobnobbed with people who had the power to do great things. She’d interviewed the president. Met her heroes, like Helen Thomas, the great Associated Press reporter who had
