The last time I visited my parents, I borrowed a novel from the shelves in my old bedroom. Once, the books there belonged to me, but in the decades since I lived in this apartment, my father has commandeered the space.
It’s only fitting. The two of us have always communicated through our libraries. For us, this represents a love language of sorts.
I grew up in a house full of books, and from an early age I had permission to look at anything. The only rule was that I had to return it when I was done.
That’s harder now than it was when I was younger. My parents live, as they have for more than 50 years, in Manhattan, and I decamped for Los Angeles years ago. Both are in their 80s and need assistance. They have in-home care, and we in the family check on them frequently.
The book I grabbed was S.A. Cosby’s 2019 debut novel, “My Darkest Prayer,” a bleakly pointed piece of Southern noir. At first, I was a bit surprised my father had heard of Cosby. And yet the more I thought about it: Why not?
For as long as I’ve known him, he has kept index cards with lists of titles. He has an account at his neighborhood bookstore. They know him and recognize his tastes. When he was younger, he used to say he wouldn’t mind aging as long as he could read. Even now, I often find him with a book, although I fear he has begun to fall out of the narrative.
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