Memories are the essence of several books I’ve read recently. In Everything Sad Is Untrue: (A True Story) by Daniel Nayeri, he shares the few memories he has of family. He escaped from Iran as a child with his mother and sister. He counts and hold the memories of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins close.
Michelle Obama’s words resonated with me. Memories are imperfect and subjective. They slip into a pocket in the mind and when probed they jiggle, wiggle, and bounce to the forefront. That’s what Ruth’s suggestion today did.
I am laying on my bed totally absorbed in the book I’m holding. Barely breathing, heart racing to learn the fate of my friend Nancy or perhaps it was Trixie. (Nancy Drew or Trixie Belden). They were so smart, they could solve any mystery. I was always on the lookout for possible mysteries in my life, but usually any mystery was caused by brothers or the family pet.
Today, I am still enamored by mysteries, however, I am not laying on my bed devouring the words of mystery writers. I prefer to sit in a patch of sunlight in my backyard. Since the weather won’t cooperate, I am forced to snuggle down in a recliner, covered by a dark brown plush throw.
I am still a fan of mystery, but I have expanded my net of preferences. Historical fiction is filling in gaps of history. I just finished Kristin Harmel’s novel, The Book of Lost Names. Now I want to know more. Ruta Sepetys is a master at writing about history that has slipped through the cracks.
As a child, I always had a book close by to take me to places in my dreams. As an adult, I am still transported by the words of authors. Not a lot has changed.