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He hears the tone of his own voice, criticizing his son. What he really wants to say, what he means, is I love you and want the world for you. Instead, what comes out is more like Jesus will you stop picking at your fingers or Put the napkin in your goddamn lap.
It’s possible to grow up in the wrong house, on the wrong street, in the wrong town, in the wrong part of the country. It’s possible to go to the wrong school. To have the wrong dad. To be pushed to do the wrong things. But it is also possible to survive all these psychic indignities if you have one, maybe two people who recognize you for who you are. His mom saw him. By seeing him, she saved him. And on one winter night half his life ago, an old doctor slung his arm around him and swayed back and forth as if he and Waldo were both hearing the same barely audible music.
Grief comes in waves. Like the swells crashing against the rocks, it gathers force and breaks when you least expect it.
18 Division Street. They love that they will live at number 18, Chai, the Hebrew word, also, for life.
A book is written in solitude, and yet it contains within its pages the fingerprints, dedication, and love of others.
