![]() ![]() "And I laughed and laughed," the woman said flatly. And so she knew that the bird was the soul of her teenage son. Just recently she and Al - her husband, who smiled apologetically with those appalling choppers - had been on the beach, and Al had been eating a tuna sub, and a seagull came and stole part of the sandwich. A joke book for the bereaved? A comic strip guide to outliving your children?įor instance, she explained, her son was dead. I couldn't imagine what she was getting at. She really did say it, in a voice that seemed as thumbworn as her glasses: "You should write a book about the lighter side of losing a child. When the reading was over and the rest of the audience had dispersed (if five people can be said to disperse) she gave her suggestion. They latched on to me, the way the sad and aimless sometimes do: I haven't been a public librarian myself for more than ten years now, but I retain what I like to think of as an air of civic acceptance. The woman wore enormous denim shorts, a plaid shirt, a black ponytail, and thumbprintblurred glasses her husband's nervous smile showed off his sand-colored teeth. ![]() ![]() ![]() I was giving a badly attended fiction reading at a public library in Florida. Once upon a time, before I knew anything about the subject, a woman told me that I should write a book about the lighter side of losing a child. An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination ![]()
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