A book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face. It is one of the few havens remaining where a man’s mind can get both provocation and privacy. ~Edward P. Morgan
My master bedroom is currently littered with piles of dirty laundry. My hair dryer plugged into the bedroom wall via a long extension cord rests on a pile of towels. The bed is unmade. The cherry wood Ethan Allen armoire drawers are open. Clean laundry spills out over the curved edges. Brighton tin heart-shaped boxes are sprinkled across the shelves, jewelry overflowing. An errant role of toilet paper is resting on the floor of the master bath. The master of that bath was too lazy to place the paper on the roll.
Downstairs, in the ground level foyer, more laundry piles. Some are clean. Some are dirty. My home office, adjacent to the ground level foyer, is a dangerous wasteland of boxes, books, and papers needing to be filed. An unconstructed box, delivered just days ago from uhaul.com, rests gently against the green walls. My sons drawings, done with a sharpie black marker that he later used to give himself a mustache, adorn the boxes.
The black wire garbage can, toppled over thanks to my cat, is vomitting out empty Vitamin Water bottles and discarded Starbucks coffee cups.
I was supposed to clean today.
Instead I read a book. I read the entire book titled The Memory Keepers Daughter by Kim Edwards.
I warn any mother who has lost a child to adoption to be very leary of this book. Oh, no offense to the author, the warning is not intended to be a negative reflection of the book. In fact, its quite the opposite. It is a good story. Well written. Good characters. Interesting plot. I did enjoy the story. I bought the book last night and finished it tonight. Thank you Lifetime TV for all your sappy advertisements on the made for television movie. Again, good story.
However, the level of loss and grief felt by Norah Henry, the mother, is painfully similar to the feelings felt by mothers, like myself, who have lost our children to adoption.
I have more to say but I honestly cannot form words. The book touched me in places I should stop touching. I really need to work on that masochistic tendancy of mine.
Off to begin my next book – The Road by Cormac MacCarthy.
But Moms, consider yourself warned on that Kim Edwards book. My eyes still hurt from crying.