The Edge

This afternoon, I spent some time reading Safekeeping, by Abigail Thomas. I sat, first in my office -- with my computer cursor blinking at me, as if it could encourage me to put my own words onto the screen before me, and then in the kitchen as my daughter ate her dinner, sang a few silly songs, and the day faded into night. And, as always, I found myself lost -- happily so -- in Ms. Thomas's words. In the small glimpses she showed me of her life. In her thoughts and hopes and dreams and even her sorrows. I lost all track of time. Dishes went unwashed. Bathtime was delayed. Fae had to remind me, more than once, that it was time for her dinner. I could not stop -- did not want to stop -- until I had read each and every word. Until I had flipped the last page and could, finally, lay the book aside with a small, contented sigh.

I don't know what it is about her books and, in particular, her writing. In general, I'm not a fan of memoirs. And yet, I simply love Ms. Thomas's writing. Her depictions. The life she has managed to live through. It makes me laugh. And cry. It touches my heart, in more ways than one. It's like her words crawl into me and come to life.

And I can't help wondering: When will I be able to do that? Will I ever be able to do that? Or my favorite: Why can't I do that?

And I set the book aside, satisfied and happy to have read it. But, at the same time, sad, too, because maybe I've found my own limitations.