Novel

This past December, my youngest son Jesse, who was home from college, turned twenty-one. We celebrated by cutting up his fake ID, and made plans to buy him a drink that night at our favorite local bar.

He was now older than his older brother.

We didn’t talk about this horrible truth, but the three of us were thinking about it. It’s unavoidable and unfair.

In fact, I thought about it so often that months earlier, I calculated the exact day and date Jesse would officially be older than Eli (September 23, 2023), who died 83 days before his 21st birthday.

That same day we celebrated Jesse, I spontaneously decided it was time to read a novel for the first time since Eli died.

Prior to July 15, 2021, reading was a regular part of my life, and I’d make monthly visits to our local bookstore and stock up on bestsellers to add to my nightstand.

After Eli died, I lost the ability to read fiction of any kind. 

My life had become much more gripping than any novel.

Death robs you of the person you love, and grief robs you of the things you loved to do. Losing yourself in a good book, listening to music, passionately rooting for your favorite sports teams. Anything related to soccer. Dancing.

But, I had no problem reading non-fiction books about grief and loss. The Unspeakable Loss, by Nisha Zenoff; Grief Works, by Julia Samuels; A Heart That Works, by Rob Delaney; The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion; Man’s Search For Meaning, by Viktor Frankl. These were just a few of the many books that were now part of my nightly routine.

That December afternoon, with the new year approaching and Jesse at home, I walked into our local book store to buy a novel.

I browsed the best seller table and staff recommendations shelf, like I used to do.

It felt normal.

After a few minutes, A book caught my eye that I’d seen on many “Best of” lists.

This was the book:

I picked it up and was immediately struck by its heaviness.

Not knowing anything about the story, I opened the front cover and read the summary:

I hadn’t stepped foot in a bookstore or read a novel in more than two years.

That day, for whatever reason, I decided I wanted to read a novel.

I chose this book.

Oprah loved it. Obama loved it.

I laughed out loud, placed the book back on the shelf, walked out of the store, drove home, picked up Nan and Jesse, went to our favorite local bar, and bought a drink for my 21-year-old son.

That night, I started reading Faith, Hope and Carnage, a non-fiction book by Nick Cave, who writes about the agony of losing a son, and the learned resilience that comes with it.

These are the days.

January 2024