I'm Adali Mone, and this is the Slowdown.

Just to live, in some ways, is to live in a constant conversation with grief.

Recently, author Said Jones said during a conversation with booksellers, we are learning

what it is like to live in tandem with catastrophe. And that is what it feels like.

We are living in tandem with catastrophe. And perhaps we always were. It's just more obvious now.

I remember some time after September 11th, sitting on a park bench in Union Square and just

sitting there, not being on my phone or reading anything, not even pretending to look busy,

but just sitting there, overwhelmed, exhausted, and two friends I had known since my youth

walked by and tapped me on the shoulder. And it was such a relief. We all hugged and talked

about how good it was to know they were okay and I was okay, whatever okay meant.

I'll never forget that moment. It felt so important to be reminded of life.

I wonder what my face looked like when they saw me. I'm sure I was won and worried.

When I walk around in public, I'm always wondering what my face, my eyes are telling someone else

about me. What clues am I giving away about my own inner world, my suffering, or my contentment?

Most times, I have a face of stone when I am walking. It is the face of a woman walking alone,

unsmiling, uninviting, a face of protection, of safe keeping.

But every once in a while, I see a glimpse of recognition in someone I pass in the lobby of

the breast care center when everyone is there for something that is potentially scary, the lobby

of a fertility clinic, the office of the OB-GYN where everyone is filled with their own

ache of concern. Our eyes tell us so much, our eyes connecting with each other, even over masks.

There is a look of loss that cannot be painted over with lipstick or foundation or hidden behind

a smile, whether it's a miscarriage or a lost loved one or a loss you know is coming.

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