When I dream of my oldest son, off in his anarchical life, it's never a happy dream. Not any more. I dream that he is living in a house surrounded by water. I dream that his foot is so infected I can barely recognize his flesh, the flesh that I am so familiar with. I dream that he is in an airplane heading up and then, no, heading toward ground, fast.
I wake up in a sweat, so sad, so afraid. I weep, sad from the innermost part of me. My core is weeping. I am sad because I don't know where he is going him. I cannot follow him. When I see him, he seems fine, but I don't know the mysteries of his heart. I was gifted once with that knowledge, but he has been on his own path for so long, that I can only watch him walk away from me, calling out to him from a growing distance.
And the above is why I'm having a hard time reading Masha Hamilton's novel 31 Hours. It is a wonderful novel, and that's the problem. She has created such a true, riveting story about a mother and a son, a mother connected so strongly to her son and then that connection is snapped like a twig. How did it happen? The mother doesn't know. She has no idea at all. This fully present mother is clueless.
I know the answers because I've been too scared to read the novel straight through. I read Carol's POV, and then I flip to the back of the book, desperate for the answers to the story that I can get--unlike in life, where I have to wait to live through it. What will Jonas do? I have to know. Maybe it will be bearable then. Maybe I will survive the novel and survive my own life with my son.
I'm only on page 30, but I know what happens on page 229. This is how I can read this amazing story. This is the only way, and I move toward page 229 the hard way now, one page at a time.
Causes Jessica Inclán Supports
Women for Women International Goodwill Industries Lindsey Wildlife Museum Freecycle.org