Our kids always had far too many books—I am not at all ashamed to admit it. That’s why it seems so strange that I only brought ten of the children’s books with us when we moved out.
I have no doubt that the book is the thing that cured me, that pushed me out of depression. It wasn’t sleeping again or the antidepressants; it was a collection of short stories.
A part of me was pleased to have my manifesto endorsed by a psychiatrist.
I know that when my baby is sleeping for ten minutes or two hours and I can steal a few moments away, I can sit down and do what I’ve been taught to do.
Cottontail’s mothering work has transformed her into the ideal candidate for her dream job, not the kind of mush-brained, overtired, and unconfident person that I felt I’d become after a few years of nearly full-time mothering.
Driving my kids home from school one day, I told them about the writing challenge.
How ironic. The teacher-librarian’s daughter doesn’t read.
Two years have passed since my son and daughter departed for college, emptying my nest. I watch these adult siblings now weaving their individual lives and look for threads that still connect us. One of those threads is our love of words. Spelling bee champs, Scrabble competitors, voracious readers—we are Wordies.
Susannah Q. Pratt
About a third of the way through a book, I would stop and flip to the end. Not to the last page of the story, spoiler-style, but rather all the way to the “Acknowledgements” section. No matter how gripping the narrative, I would pause and turn to review this section in the back.
I want too much. I shouldn’t have come on this research trip with a five-month-old baby.
Three and four pounds when they were born at thirty weeks gestation, their own struggle to survive, each time I recall it, takes my breath away. Perhaps the journey that made me face my own demise began with their birth and not with my cancer.
Literary Reflections Archives