The Starless Sea

by Erin Morgenstern

“Spiritual but not religious,” Zachary clarifies. He doesn’t say what he is thinking, which is that his church is held-breath story listening and late-night-concert ear-ringing rapture and perfect-boss fight-button pressing. That his religion is buried in the silence of freshly fallen snow, in a carefully crafted cocktail, in between the pages of a book somewhere after the beginning but before the ending.

Books that felt truer than people.

They asked if I thought he would have done something—like jumped-off-a-bridge something—and I said I didn’t think so, but I also think most of us are two steps away from jumping off something most of the time and you never know if the next day is going to push you in one direction or another.

(All cats are guardians in their own right.)

I hope there’s a missing piece, maybe even a small one, something that will make all the other pieces fit together but I have no clue what it is.