every minute of every hour...

...if we make it through December

Yesterday I read Hey Zoey by Sarah Crossan yesterday. It was short enough and the day was slow enough that I was able to do so. I’d planned to start the second book in the Millennium trilogy, having spent a good portion of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day reading the first one. Instead I became absorbed by the woman finding her husband’s sex doll and unearthing her childhood trauma.

You often read a book a day. You were good at that.

I have two interlibrary loans out at the moment, and requests for at least three more. I am making an effort to request weird old children’s books I want to read instead of simply just buying them, but it’s hard at times. If I could board myself up inside my book nook, I would.

But the cats…I know, I know.

I bought two books on grief the autumn after you died. I haven’t read either of them. I requested a new book on a grief called Always a Sibling. I haven’t read that one yet either.

I purchased cases for both our kindles yesterday so I could tell them apart. (and also take them to work and read more easily.) Black for yours, of course.

“Have you read this?” a coworker holds up A Dark Is Rising. “I haven’t read it in years, but.”

“So good.” I chime in.

“I’m putting it on hold.” they say decisively. “I should reread it.”

And then later, the patron came in to pick it up and said her friend was loving it and had recommended it.

Before Christmas I reread A Little Princess, and the fierce love for stories rose up in me again. Why can’t I translate that into writing my own? Why aren’t those as important to my brain when they are literally the only thing keeping me going*?

What is the trick to get my stories to come willingly to the page?

Why can’t this be the kind of grief where I produce something magnificent so everyone knows how much I will always love you?

Two women came in to get library cards yesterday. Newly moved to the city, newly moved in together, clearly sisters. And they were happy, excited about moving in together, you could tell. I was happy for them, but oh so jealous at the same time. Why can’t I go back to then, and keep you safe?

Why is this the reality that will not end?

*and the cats obviously.