The day of my father-in-law’s funeral was mentally and physically exhausting. I was nervous, I was sad, tears near the surface waiting to be released, I was worried, and I became a book thief (kind of, but for all intents and purposes I am). This was not something that I planned, but rather it was something I felt I needed to do. What happened was this.
From the moment we woke that morning in a hotel in Buffalo, NY, we were busy. It wasn’t that sweet drowsy wake up from a snuggle and a kiss. It was more like a hit the ground running, don’t stop or you will cry. I wanted to stay strong for John. I am a failure and I pulled him into my unintentional life of crime.
Family was everywhere. I have never experienced family like my father-in-laws family. From an outsider’s perspective, they are warm and welcoming. My family, on the other hand, are more…um…well…It’s not about them so we will leave that thought just hanging there. Dad’s family, even though I have seen them just a few times in thirty-two years, makes you feel as if you have never been away. It is a truly lovely experience to sit in a group of not quite strangers that make you feel that you have always been there with a “Remember, that time….” But, dealing with family, even nice ones, can be exhausting on a day like this..funeral day.
Funeral day. A day that no one wants. A day where you go to say farewell. A day that hammers home the one true fact, it’s final. No more will you hear a familiar voice, touch a familiar hand or smell that person’s scent in an embrace. I do not like Funeral Day.
So, after all the day’s activities were done, John and I went back to the hotel, changed and waited in the lobby for Jack and Andrea to go to a previous engagement. While John and I sat and chatted, I looked across the room and there was a bookshelf with books, there were knick-knacks too, but I was only interested in these books. And this is where it happened. I became a book thief and corrupted my husband. I am going to hell in a handbasket.
I walked across the room and stood in front of the books. Then I saw it. I had never felt the desire to steal. Nor had I ever felt the desire to read this particular book. I didn’t even know what it was about. But, I had this urge that was growing, it felt like I would cry out in agony if I didn’t take this book. I picked it up and looked at the cover. I showed John. Then I slid this book for some unknown reason into my purse. To say the least, John was shocked. Now I will not go down alone so I pointed to another book and told John to put the Blade Runner in my purse. I thought it was an appropriate title but then I found out that the book title was not the Blade Runner, it was only highlighting the fact that the movie was based on this book. As an additional bonus, there were bookmarks. In they went! (I said “Handbasket” People!!)
And there it is. I stole The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. It was the first and only thing I have stolen. I brought this book back home with me. My booty. I thought if I took the time to take this book, I might just as well give it a read. I am glad I did. I just finished it this morning. I cried. I cried like I haven’t been able to for my father-in-law and for my own Max. I cried for the characters that died. I cried because the book ended. I needed that cry.
While I like to think that I stole this book in some clandestine way, I didn’t. I didn’t even steal it. What I saw on the back cover of that book was a sticker that said:
Someday in the future, I will return it. But for now, I need it.