Why I Keep a Reading List
Someday, ten years from now, when my daughters are in college, someone will ask me, “Hey, did you ever read that book, The Goldfinch?”
And my mind will tumble back in time to the year 2014.
And I’ll remember reading that book while pushing the girls on swings, in the rain, at the park down the street from our house. I’ll remember reading the book in the car in the parking lot of their elementary school. And while waiting for soccer practice to finish and for a ballet recital to start.
I’ll remember that time in our lives, in their lives. Their big smiles and their tiny, tight bodies –all bones and muscles dinged with bruises and scabs. How they smelled of the outdoors, and also a little bit like our dog, Kuba.
I’ll remember how they slept with me one night because Dan was out of town. They slept so hard and deep that I nuzzled into their necks and inhaled them until I was dizzy with love. I’ll remember how their little bodies radiated so much heat that I couldn’t lie under the covers without sweating. So I lay on top of the covers, between my little girls, reading that book all night long. And in the morning, I made cinnamon rolls because they loved cinnamon rolls.
“Did you like it?” the person from 2024 will ask.
And I’ll have blink a few times to get back to the present moment. “Did I like it?"
“Yeah, the book, The Goldfinch?”
I’ll think for a minute, trying to remember, and then I’ll say, “Yeah, I loved it.”