Monday, August 23, 2010
Lately my father has been leaving things at my house—old publications featuring stories of mine (Risk and Insurance magazine, let's say, where I was the Benefits columnist, a job I could do in the middle of the night so I could be a mom in the daytime). Sometimes I look into my father's packages right away and sometimes I forget, and only today did I find this photo (I took it myself, 21 years ago) of my mother, my father, and my three-month-old son.
Oh, how the passing of time breaks your heart. Relentlessly.
For this same boy, this night, texted me from a Phillies game, where he'd gone with a friend. "It's such a beautiful night," he wrote. "And we have such great seats." Why does something like that make me cry? Why does a phone call, thirty seconds later, from Elizabeth Law make me cry harder? "Dangerous Neighbors launches tomorrow," she says, after we chat about a million other things. "And I want you to know that we at Egmont are proud of this book."
Something like that, or close to that.
Elizabeth Law, calling me.
Dangerous Neighbors, a book I care about more than I'm willing to admit, launching tomorrow.
My son, texting me from a Phillies game, where a soft rain is falling. I am happy.
Look. Life is full of a thousand oddities and more regrets. It is the why not me and the why me and the indignity and the shame. It is also a son and a book and a father, redistributing memories. What does it mean to launch a book about a city you love? What does it mean?
It means your heart is full. It means right now is the right right now.