The Secret Lesson of Books and Grief

Strange.
Emotional spilling over.

While reading a book, I move from one scene to the next — one sentence to the next — and start to cry. With no hint of a reason why.

My chest tightens and I feel warm all over. The hotness wells up to my throat and then eyes. I feel the moisture and with even breaths I exhale through open mouth repeatedly until I can gain control. I look up, holding the tears in my eyelids like little bowls. I’m still pushing the heat out with my breath.

Why did two unrelated sentences in the book cause me grief?

The eyelashes of my right eye stick together and poke my eyeball. I blink rapid staccato and the light from the NJ windows looks like a strobe light for a few seconds. I continue blowing the emotional pain out.

I used to hold my breath when I’d cry. But then I learned that our muscles hold memories, and holding our breath while crying did something similar. It made the dense emotion of grief stay within. Now I struggle to breathe when I cry. To let it out.

I blink the eyelash straight and two solid fat globs of tears drain down my cheeks.

Like twins.

Separated at birth but still unknowingly doing things simultaneously, across the country.

I’m distracted by the blue sky and the sticks of branches that have lost their leaves to autumn, and the Arabic French music of Souad Massi fills the apartment. I wonder if it contributed to my mini-meltdown.

A close friend and I spoke yesterday of tradition and heritage. Ancestry. What to pass on to your children’s generation.

What do I want to bring my children? What can I bring?

Certainly love. Love and compassion and caring. A delicate reminder of the importance of life and love.

And my love of books and words.
And magic.
The seasonal changes.
The Full Moon song.
And reading in bed at night.

I can bring those things to my children.

What can you bring yours?
What reminders have you found in books lately?