Last week, with the power out and the only light from my smartphone illuminating my tiny bathroom, I turn on the shower praying the water is still hot, lukewarm at least. Cold water sputters; I whimper. The stories from The Nightingale come to mind as if to mock me. Do you know what happens in war? The ugly rumours, the List, the roundups, the ration cards, and the too long lines waiting for so little food— and mothers who don’t eat so their children don’t starve and they still have to bury them anyway because bullets don’t discriminate— and definitely no hot water. I step into the shower. On my commute, I get lost in The Nightingale again, fighting back tears, unable to fathom the terror the human spirit can endure. Here I am, barely able to endure the agony of reading the words on paper, while tucked safely on a seat on the Subway, my biggest threat a drugged out man screaming obscenities at no one in particular, and from a safe distance, oh, and a cold shower— The power was back by the time I left for work. And I know it ends: World War II. Another story for the history books; another story told of human suffering in a long list of human sufferings: Say You’re One of Them, Things Fall Apart, Homegoing, Caging Skies, Man’s Search for Meaning, A Long Way Gone. I read, and read, and read. And when I exhaust myself and he says, “sure babe, I’m listening,” I read to him too— My Parent’s Bedroom: Choking back tears, voice breaking, holding back a scream. He’s mostly watching the road but he glances at me: What kind of benevolent God would allow such a thing?
(more…)
time spent offline 