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Perhaps she’s the hopeful, optimistic antithesis to the dark cloud I’ve become, meant to hold up a mirror to my life and my actions.
“You’re affected, Harriet.” “Of course, I am.” I relax against him, my arm slung low around his waist. Past Nolan flips another page in his book, breaking off a piece of his bread. “It’s you.”
How many mornings have I sat at my kitchen table, staring out at the water outside the window, watching the boats pass by and hoping for something different? Filling the empty space in front of me with a distraction so I don’t have to feel the ache of my loneliness?
“As opposed to the woman who lets others twist her into something smaller. Remember who you are, Harriet. And remember you’re not alone.”
I feel like a flower. Something delicate, bending toward the light on my trembling stem. Always trying so damn hard to be seen. To grow. To build a bouquet and flourish within the group. I’m so damn tired.
I had a friend tell me once that writing a book is like slotting a bookmark into a chapter of our life. So much of what we’re going through as people is reflected in our work as authors. I like to think this book is a reflection of how hopeful I felt while carrying my son.
And to my children, who still think Mommy works at a bookstore. I’ve been waiting my whole life for you. I hope you’ll come back for another visit to the Department of Hauntings and Spirits. I heard a rumor there’s a Reaper on the loose.
😭
