It's like I say we have this tradition of me reading aloud to him in the car, but it has only been the last two years. But the tradition is beginning I believe. It has been David Sedaris the last two winters. The tip tops of the Southeastern Ohio trees stark against the sky fly by and I trip giggle over the amazing essays of the person I want to be when I grow up. I rest my head against the cold window and my mouth unhinges and tells Joe all the things written in tiny type and he laughs hard in the car. I introduced him to David Sedaris. I also made him read "On the Road" and "The Catcher in the Rye" and he kissed me so many times because of those.
He gives me gifts too- like appreciation of British punk music.
I get it now. After a decade of resistance.
I have read "Holidays on Ice" twice to Joe and we both enjoyed it immensely.
I like to read to Joe and have started to share chapters of my novel with him.
My voice is shaky and sometimes I even cry a little because let's not pretend that beginning writers don't weave some of their own shit into the mix.
Let us not pretend I am not raw and open in parts of my book. I know it. I wrote it.
This year I think I am going to read to Joe "Under Milk Wood: A Play for Voice" by Dylan Thomas. We will be bundled up in the truck and driving down the stretch of highway that rolls right back in time to a place I try and filter through me now. We will have the radio on low and the kids will be clutching new toys against chests and faces crusty with cinnamon sugar morning and we will be happy and I will tell him things.
I will read to him and the tone of my voice will wrap around his heart and pulse it all day long.