I’m doing a few things differently these days.
Eating a little better (no more babies or Five Guys).
Drinking a bit less.
Training more often.
And reading again.
It’s not that I ever really got away from reading.
I didn’t have a television in Miami, so I spent my time leaning against the streetlamps of the Internets or reading Odd Man Out by Matt McCarthy or The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz or The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers or The Book of Basketball by Bill Simmons or the New York Times or The Economist or whatever I could get my hands on.
But this time I’m reading aloud.
When my mother was bedridden and couldn’t hold a book, I used to read Shel Silverstein to her.
I used to read poetry to her, or the Bible, or anything she felt like hearing.
I hadn’t read aloud in years. Not since she passed, at least.
So I read to Corey.
It makes her sit still for awhile and listen.
Satisfies the old repressed ham buried under layers of calm restraint.
Lets me hear to how the words spill off the page.
And lets us spend conscious time together away from glowing screens.
To tell you the truth, I love it. I’d do it all day if I could.
Posted on August 3, 2011
0