My mom emails me the other day and says that she stayed up most of the night to read Buck (do you remember that one?). It’s the memoir about the kid growing up in the ghetto, totally abandoned by his father and trying to figure things out on his own. It’s been a while since I read it. But I remember a lot of loss. And a lot of good, sad writing.
Anyway, it’s just crazy because my mom and my real dad (the one who left me at birth, the one who I connected with right after my first son was born) BOTH love the book. Each has shared with me how powerful they thought it was. They’ve both made a point to talk to me about it. How interesting when your two parents–who haven’t spoken in 35 years, btw–are impacted so forcefully by the same book. I don’t know. It’s ironic, I guess.
I don’t even know what to think. But the weird thing is that I feel this overwhelming sense of appreciation. I don’t really have the best, closest relationship with either of them, but I kind of love that they actually read the books I like. Book reviewing is a side hobby of mine. No one really gives a shit about it…which is honest to God fine with me. But it does warm my heart a little to see them listening, watching for my recommendations. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. How life is short, and how you better accept the good stuff–however small–while you can. You can spend your whole life hating what’s been done, pining for what you don’t have, wishing, wishing, wishing things had been different. But at the end of the day, your life is your own, and I think things don’t really work out as expected for anyone. Maybe the whole point is to make something good out of what you were dealt.
I’m rambling. This is why I shouldn’t drunk post. But oh well. What’s done is done.