The only possible way for me to let go was to connect to something. I still can’t go to sleep without reading.
My mother read to me. Tucked and nestled. Arms by my side. Hair still a little damp. I was ready for my word bath. Maybe it was because I had just gotten out of the tub, but I think probably more so because the words washed me clean of the day. Released from the worries that can plague a heart and mind in the shade of night. But not left adrift. No. Each word was like a buoy I clung to — a buoy that separated the shallow from the deep, roped off, letter by letter. And I was saved.
Looking back, it was more than just the story. It was time with my mom. She gave to me, not only the gift of reading, the joy of reading, but something to hang on to when she left my bedside curb. Secure in her love, I braved the night.
I suppose I’m still doing that. Each night before letting go, I gather in the words. I gather in the love. Tucked in familiar and new, I let go. Forever connected.
