Reading leads to violence
As I write that last piece, I need to point out
that our family life is so "not like that" all the
time.
Maybe two days ago, I came home from work, had one more 8:00 call, and went into the bedroom to check on my ladies. Ms Pope and Sören were stretched out on our bed, each reading their own book. They made way for me and I lay down next to them, and pulled out my book (No Country for Old Men, by Cormac McCarthy -- more on that later, that is worth its own blog entry).
As the three of us lay there, silent, each engrossed in our own literary sanctuary, I was overcome with a feeling of gratitude, that all was OK. The Railroad Baroness asked me recently if I remember afternoons where all of us would be stretched out on sofas or the floor in our family room, each with our own book. And I don't. But I will remember this.
Maybe two days ago, I came home from work, had one more 8:00 call, and went into the bedroom to check on my ladies. Ms Pope and Sören were stretched out on our bed, each reading their own book. They made way for me and I lay down next to them, and pulled out my book (No Country for Old Men, by Cormac McCarthy -- more on that later, that is worth its own blog entry).
As the three of us lay there, silent, each engrossed in our own literary sanctuary, I was overcome with a feeling of gratitude, that all was OK. The Railroad Baroness asked me recently if I remember afternoons where all of us would be stretched out on sofas or the floor in our family room, each with our own book. And I don't. But I will remember this.
And Sören, probably, won't. She'll remember
that her fuckface mother used to hit her.
Posted: Sat - August 27, 2005 at 08:16 AM
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Published On: Aug 27, 2005 08:16 AM
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Published On: Aug 27, 2005 08:16 AM