Geese and ducks glide slowly.
I stand at my deck and sip my third cup.
It's a fine morning.
Soon, I will wrap myself with a warm blanket and sit down to read:
Home, by Marilynne Robinson.
The book traps you in its tiny spaces. I'm straining to hear and see the three people in this house. The conversations are slow, measured. Nobody wants to make a mistake. Nobody wants to hurt anyone. The three of them are together under one roof perhaps for the last time. Dark rooms and hesitant movements prevail.
I fear what will happen.
I read four, six pages and I stop.
I decide tamilies are hard to know. And it all feels confusing and oppressive. It digs into our conscience, our sense of right and wrong.
I confessed to another blogger that I couldn't get through this book. It was not the book's fault. I forgot that some things are too cold to handle with bare hands. This is one of them.
Redemption takes time, I tell myself. It is measured in small sips, small apologies, simple acknowledgements.
Yes, some reading should be sipped slowly.
