It was a small thing, but it was a thing, and things have a way of either dying or growing, and it wasn’t dying. Years went by. This thing grew, like a child, microscopically, every day. And since they were a team, and all teams want to win, they continuously adjusted their vision to keep its growth invisible. They wordlessly excused each other for not loving each other as much as they planned to. There were empty rooms in the house where they had meant to put their love, and they worked together to fill these rooms with midcentury modern furniture. Herman Miller, George Nelson, Charles and Ray Eames. They were never alone; it became crowded.
Outwardly Miranda July’s stories are quirky, funny, and at times a bit creepy, but in a clever, humorous way. But underneath all that lies an inherent sadness. Constant undercurrents of loss and profound yearning churn beneath the wry comedies. That is exactly what is so great about them.
