Once, when I was a kid, my sister burst into my bedroom and yelled at me that my room was on fire. I had placed a rabbit puppet on top of my nightside table reading lamp, and there it smoldered as I read on, page after page, completely oblivious to my burning and beloved toy.
I can read through anything. Or so I thought. But I cannot read through a pandemic. I have picked up and set aside several books. Nothing can capture or keep me. I assumed reading would be my solace, but it is just out of my reach, a promise I cannot quite claim.
Once, when Erik, our oldest son was just a boy, and we had moved from small town to big city to small town again in a span of about four years, he wisely said, “Good, now I will have more time to read.” He was anticipating the emptier hours and longer days available to him just outside of Toronto’s grasp. He was in grade one and reading was already his best friend.
My best friend has moved away. I know she’ll be back, but I really miss her.