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"
Good
night
,
my
dear
Liz
,
"
he
says
.
"
Buona
notte
,
caro
mio
,
"
I
reply
.
I
walk
up
the
stairs
to
my
fourth
-
floor
apartment
,
all
alone
.
I
let
myself
into
my
tiny
little
studio
,
all
alone
.
I
shut
the
door
behind
me
.
Another
solitary
bedtime
in
Rome
.
Another
long
night
’
s
sleep
ahead
of
me
,
with
nobody
and
nothing
in
my
bed
except
a
pile
of
Italian
phrasebooks
and
dictionaries
.
I
am
alone
,
I
am
all
alone
,
I
am
completely
alone
.
Grasping
this
reality
,
I
let
go
of
my
bag
,
drop
to
my
knees
and
press
my
forehead
against
the
floor
.
There
,
I
offer
up
to
the
universe
a
fervent
prayer
of
thanks
.
First
in
English
.
Then
in
Italian
.
And
then
-
just
to
get
the
point
across
-
in
Sanskrit
.
And
since
I
am
already
down
there
in
supplication
on
the
floor
,
let
me
hold
that
position
as
I
reach
back
in
time
three
years
earlier
to
the
moment
when
this
entire
story
began
-
a
moment
which
also
found
me
in
this
exact
same
posture
:
on
my
knees
,
on
a
floor
,
praying
.
Everything
else
about
the
three
-
years
-
ago
scene
was
different
,
though
.
That
time
,
I
was
not
in
Rome
but
in
the
upstairs
bathroom
of
the
big
house
in
the
suburbs
of
New
York
which
I
’
d
recently
purchased
with
my
husband
.
It
was
a
cold
November
,
around
three
o
’
clock
in
the
morning
.
My
husband
was
sleeping
in
our
bed
.
I
was
hiding
in
the
bathroom
for
something
like
the
forty
-
seventh
consecutive
night
,
and
-
just
as
during
all
those
nights
before
-
I
was
sobbing
.
Sobbing
so
hard
,
in
fact
,
that
a
great
lake
of
tears
and
snot
was
spreading
before
me
on
the
bathroom
tiles
,
a
veritable
Lake
Inferior
(
if
you
will
)
of
all
my
shame
and
fear
and
confusion
and
grief
.
