My sister, Alex, who died just over two months ago, was a voracious reader. I am too. I’m currently in the middle of three books: The Lathe of Heaven by Ursula K. LeGuin, Code Name Verity by Elizabeth Wein, and Changing My Mind: Occasional Essays by Zadie Smith. We’re both English teachers (her abroad, me in the States) so it makes sense, our shared love of reading. We had so much in common–and that has been the difficulty I might never overcome: she was my best friend.
But we both read. Each in our own ways. In high school I was busy reading The Andromeda Strain while she read The Red Tent, or scarfing down another Agatha Christie mystery while she tread through another John Irving novel. We were both busy understanding ourselves and our dreams through literature. After she left the country to pursue her dreams of teaching English abroad, books were a way for us to keep the conversation going. It was always a topic of conversation whenever we spoke in person or on Skype after she moved out of the country.
“What books are you reading?” she would ask.
As an English teacher, I read a lot. I read with my students, and require all of them to find books to read and perhaps fall in love with. She would always argue with me about requiring Lord of the Flies for ninth graders–she hated that book so much. “It’s such a…high school English class book. Pick something better.” I never did.
I visited her abroad this pas summer, just two months before she died in a motor accident, and was curious to see the books on her shelf. Her friend from Australia would always buy her some and ship them over. He would always get her the books I told her she should read. She was in the middle of The Book Thief, and my recommendation of The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss was next on her list. They found The Book Thief in her travel bag at the site of her death. I hope she had already finished it.
Alex rarely recommended me books. She always complained she was a slow reader, but always made it through my recommendations…arguing the whole time about whether or not she thought it was worth it. I’m never sure she did. I raged through Gone Girl and thought it quite fun. She could only say, “It’s kind of messed up. Why would you want me to read that?” And then I’d go back to the drawing board, trying to figure out a better book to recommend.
Christmas, the holiday she loved, was not always a time to be together. The most recent few Christmases we were apart, separated by oceans. The last Christmas I spent with her was years ago. That Christmas she gave me a book: The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. I didn’t read it. I still haven’t but just this evening, after a long day at work, I picked it up and began to read it. It begins as the story of a love affair with books. Something we both shared.
As I began to read it, I was filled with a joy of memory I don’t often feel when I think about Alex. Too often I think of her and sadness takes me, but this was different. As I read the book she recommended (quite a good book so far), I couldn’t help but imagine my delight as her delight. Those magical moments filling up its pages making her smile, making her happy, inspiring her to give it as a gift. Oh, what wonder she must have loved the experience of reading this book and now I am in the middle of that wonder.
I couldn’t be happier in the midst of my grief.
Today was a sad day, where all the things around me reminded me how empty I am without my best friend around to share the nonsense of my life. So here is the recommendation. Give books that give you joy to the ones you love. Ask for the same. Maybe one day, in the midst of grief, you can open up a tale of magic and wonder and realize that you are filling yourself with the wonder your loved one felt too. That joy has reminded me how much my sister enjoyed being happy.
Alex loved the movie Elf. It was one of her favorite holiday films. I remember seeing it with her in the theaters, along with most of Will Ferrell’s comedies like Anchorman and Talladega Nights. One Christmas we played the movie on repeat for a full day, opting to lazily press the play button when the movie had ended, and falling in love with story all over again. I tried to watch it the other day to get into the Christmas spirit, but it left me sad. Movies and books just aren’t the same in grief.
When I left, the last full day I was in town, I asked if we could stop by a book store, and I bought her a few books I thought she’d enjoy. I remember buying her The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. I was certain she’d find it funny and heartbreaking in just the same way she always adored those John Irving novels. And when her belongings were shipped back to us, she had read through the whole thing, the spine cracked in several places. We never had a chance to talk about it. I hope she loved it. I hope she found it funny. I hope she smiled as she read it.
Gifted books are best read after. Alex was never one to wallow or even simmer in misery. She moved on to the next good thing. So, I’m taking a page out of her book, and moving on to the next good thing…keeping her memory close to me as I turn the next page.
Happiness In Grief 