by Richard Meryman
His wife's name was Hope. Married more than 20 years, they had two young adopted daughters when she was found to have a malignant melanoma. This is Meryman's account of their last two and a half years, her treatment, her death and his mourning. Hope died at home: "I wanted to be alone with Hope, a kind of ceremony to embrace and solemnize the moment. I sat in a chair gazing across the familiar room at Hope's form shaping the white sheet—feet, legs, hands on breast, nose—as the garden had shaped the snow that morning. Our life history passed before me, sensations not images, fluid—what we had shared, liked, wanted, been to each other. Oh, Hopie. Now it was finished—the full story of Hopie Brooks—her existence severed by a mole on the back." The whole book is unsparingly personal, anguished and beautifully written. Meryman, who wrote for the old LIFE, is a skilled reporter of his own most terrible moments. (Little, Brown, $11.95)
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