May 31, 2011

2 years on

While walking through the grocery store parking lot tonight I overheard a mom say to her daughter (teenager) "You should read this book I'm reading." I wanted to reach over and tell that daughter to read the book. Take advantage of the moment. How many times did my mom say that to me? Seriously...a million times. And how many times did I read the book...not many. So, here I am aimlessly making my way through her bookcases, searching for that connection.

Two year after her passing...I have been reading, a lot. My husband and I never thought we would own a home with a library, but now we refer to the basement as the library. We check books in and out. He has made his way through a number of authors...currently stuck in a never ending P.D. James book.

The question of whether or not I have learned anything about my mother through reading these books isn't quite clear. I seriously cannot believe that when my parents divorced my mom didn't have a wild affair with a "no-good" musician...as per all the female detectives in her books. Of course it's entirely possible I just wasn't privy to this information.

I suppose what I have learned is that she really and truly loved mysteries. Maybe it was because, being an adopted child, her life was sort of a mystery. Maybe it's because she started a family at the young age of 18...adventures were not commonplace in her day to day life. I'm still searching for more clues in the pages of these books.

Do I like the same books as my mom? Maybe. If you asked me what genre of books I enjoy, I'm not certain I could answer. I float around. I am enjoying reading her books. I love putting them to good use. I love laughing at the little jokes, my heart racing at the thrilling moments and crying when everything falls apart. Finding comfort in knowing my mom felt the same emotions as she read the same words. What will I do if and when I ever finish reading her books? I'm not certain. I joke that they take up "too much room" in my house and at times it is oppressing. But how could I ever let go?