Reading, Alone
A lifetime of books made me who I am, for better or worse
The day before they left, my wife and I found a brief, quiet moment to share an embrace in the kitchen. I told her how much I would miss her and miss the kids, how sorry I was that my work schedule meant I couldn’t accompany them on their spring break vacation, how lonely I would be without them around. Ten days. Ten long days. What would I do with myself? My wife said, “You’ll be fine. You’ll be happy being alone. Alone with your thoughts.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t try to counter what she was saying or feign a halfhearted denial. Instead I just hugged her body against mine, tight, tighter still, as if I could press her into me and through me.
The older I get, the stronger I feel that solitude is a measure of a life. Who are you when you’re alone? I’m probably reading, I think to myself, though I know this doesn’t quite answer the question.
A lifelong reader should, perhaps, be able to recall the first book they read. I don’t. I remember a tattered hardcover, all browns and yellows on the cover, a cowboy hat, horses, a fence — a western for young readers of some sort. I stretched out in the bottom bunk and invented a story aloud as I moved my eyes across the cryptic marks on the page, because that’s what I saw everyone else in my house doing…
