Last night I sat on the porch swing and cried my way through to the end of The Fault in our Stars. I don’t make it a practice of crying when I read books (unless I’m reading them out loud—then I’m completely worthless), but this one shot my record all to smithereens.
Actually, “cry” isn’t the right word. I sobbed, complete with snot, chest-heaving, and guttural sound effects. My older daughter kept peering out the window and saying, “Gosh, Mom,” and then yelling to the rest of the family, “You oughta see her! She’s really crying!”
It was all good though. There was no trauma in the emotional turmoil, no fear or angst, just a piercing sadness mixed with profound peace. Cleansing therapy, it was.
Then I made my husband stay up until midnight watching Her with me. Poor guy was crawling out of his skin, but he stuck with it.
So today I’m in recovery. I baked a pie, fed the kids leftovers for lunch, supervised some deep cleaning, and just finished off a piece of boozy chocolate cake. I’m contemplating curling up and doing some more reading—exactly three books are calling my name, lucky me—but I’m trying to balance all the reading with a small bit of writing output.
Which I just did, so now I’m done, good-bye.
PS. Photo: courtesy of Just Because.