This book has been sitting on my shelf for almost a year:

Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel, in case you haven’t heard, is mostly narrated by the nine year old son of a man who died on 9/11 in the Twin Towers. Yeah, it’s heavy. A variety of forms – pictures, single lines of text, letters – offset the subject matter a bit. But just a bit. You can’t run from the grief of a child.

Or grief in general.

Safran Foer handles grief in a way that might bother some folks. Described but not discussed. A background more than a subject. Then again, maybe I only notice the grief because I have been thinking about it.

I bought this book to give to my uncle while my aunt went back in the hospital with breast cancer. She slept a great deal. He needed a book. Or, I thought he needed a book. I bought this novel because I saw it around; it seemed like a title he would have heard about. Christmas came and went. My aunt moved to hospice.

How could I give him a book about grief now? I couldn’t, I can’t.

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