Reading for pleasure has been the activity most affected by my mother’s death.
Reading for me, is intrinsically connected with my mother. Both she and my father encouraged my monstrous appetite for books, and my mother read to me faithfully as a child, even as a baby. So when she died–it doesn’t seem so long ago, but it was last year, now–I couldn’t bring myself to read. I’m not sure if it was guilt (enjoying something in the wake of the loss of her) or attention span, or what have you. All I do know is that I have not read a full book for pleasure–one not for teaching–since May.
I just finished a book last night, and while it was a 3/5, it was worth it, so very worth it, to finish something. To allow myself the time and headspace to read. To escape. To enjoy.