I’d read for a while, then I’d wrap up a dish or clean off another shelf. My current book was so well written that when I started reading, I’d find myself crying crocodile tears that wouldn’t stop. Living and dying were written about so carefully, so beautifully, that my shirt sleeves were wet from my tears. Even taking another set of dishes off a shelf to give away found me with now dry and gritty eyes.
Perhaps it’s a side effect of my stroke, I would say to myself. It often is….one eye cries for no reason when the other doesn’t.
Not yesterday. I found myself wrapped up in a generational anger that was placed in a beautiful setting. Bees buzzed around my ears. Even the ruts in the driveway were magically peopled with snapping turtles that made me smile just before another rush of tears.
Sometimes books affect me that way.
Life is Really in the Footnotes: