The Last Testament

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If I sound calm as I begin this, I’m not. Numb would be more like it. Drained, nearly hopeless. I’m writing to try to hold on to my sanity. It’s something to do, a discipline. I will make every effort to tell what happened, no matter how painful the telling is. I want this record to be accurate, and in sequence.

March 23. Tonight as I fixed dinner and wrestled with self-pity because Tom had phoned saying he’d be staying late in San Francisco, the entire Eastern Seaboard was wiped out.

I had the TV in the kitchen tuned to the evening news from New York. When the video went off there was a bright pop. Then the screen went dark.

I moved to jiggle the knobs, expecting the usual apology about “technical difficulties,” although now that I think of it, the sound was off, too. No static, no flickers — nothing.

Suddenly he picture came back, with an excited San Francisco announcer shouting, “Listen! Listen! We’re being attacked!” The man’s voice rose and broke.

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