“something amazing I can’t share because it’s so new, but trust me, it’s fabulous…”
I am drinking a cup of tea. I am trying to do some work in the kitchen, where Barno is driving a red matchbox truck down an incline over and over. I am fretting about full hours versus empty hours. I am dying, dying I tell you, to read the last 50 pages of Anne Tyler’s new book. I know! Lucky me! About five years ago, dearest B patted my hand and said, “You would like her,” and so I went out and read everything Anne had ever written, and now I wait two long years at a time for the new ones. And dearest B handed over her latest last week after our really lovely dinner, and honestly, I opened the book and read the first line and almost stopped right there. Because I know, I just know, that I’m going to reach the last line (in another 50 pages or so) and I am going to feel bereft. I almost decided to spare myself. But of course, to spare myself the feeling of bereftness would mean locking myself in a box and plugging my ears with cotton to keep from knowing what I’m missing. Bereftness is everywhere. It’s in my tall twelve-year-old who is stretched out on the couch with his feet under the dog, reading. It’s in my blurry ten-year-old who is dribbling a basketball throughout the house and wishing out loud we had a large basement where he could really practice. It’s in my six-year-old, who had a nightmare last night and needed to tell me all about it at four in the morning. It’s in the hundreds of books we took off our shelves over the weekend and packed away for new homes. Books that I loved another time in my life, that I’m ready to release into the wilds.
There is no bereftness in ordering out for pizza, like I just did. But it’s a watery January night, so I dialed the phone and felt it anyway.
I’m not sure bereftness is a word. But if feels nice to say, like well-folded cardboard. And no one is paying me for this little digital space, so bereftness stands.
Goodnight, dears. Finish your books and kiss your cats.