Endurance
I'm reading a strange book.
The narrator, a mother and writer, holds a long conversation with her dead son, whose life ended at sixteen by suicide. Scary, isn't it? But strangely the book doesn't carry what I expected — there is no excavation behind his death, no intense drama between mother and son. Instead, the book offers long, quiet, quizzical conversations on life, memories, and the afterlife. Witnessing their conversation — however fictional — felt calm, almost soothing, like watching leaves fall from a tree in autumn. Soon it will be winter, yes I know, but for now, the beauty of the present moment prevails.
It was a book that was not to be finished in one sitting, although it was merely 192 pages long. I kept bringing the book with me everywhere: to my yoga studio, jazz bar, subway, church, shopping mall, and other places. Each time I could take in only a few chapters. Going further felt silly as rushing and seeking practicality at one's funeral.
The mother and son had a clear distance they couldn't fix — one in real life, the other in the beyond. And yet their days often remained on the same pages, refusing to end. They both kept affection and longing for each other, and thus endurance was forged. No matter what, love never ended. And the sadness of separation, too, persisted. They remain, endure, and perhaps, breathe, in this continuation.
