But more significantly, yes, even moreso than my own memories, is the story from which these details are actually drawn: Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. For obvious (to me & my life) reasons, I've loved this book from the moment I cracked open the first page to learn exactly how Jem broke the arm that ended up just a bit shorter than the other one.
Harper Lee died today. At 89 years old, she's the author of one of the definitive novels of the 20th century and the product of one of the more questionable publishing decisions of the 21st century (I clearly have very strong feelings about Go Set a Watchman and its bumpy path to becoming a public work).
Yet for the publication of (essentially) only one book in her lifetime, Harper Lee managed to touch hearts and minds alike. Why? Because she understood. We're all just trying to understand what we're doing, to find someone else who understands us.
It might be a shared laugh at just the wrong moment. It might be the realization that there is just one other person who is just as big a screw-up as you are. And it might be a childish innocence that leads to a casual greeting belying the significance of the moment.
But no matter what: at the end of the chapter, at the end of the book, at the end of the realization of how very real a simple story can be, you know just how much the words matter.
Harper Lee and her eloquence prove my point. It's about the words, the stories, the very life-force. We love...we live...because, at the end of each day, we find comfort in our shared joys and pains. And that...that very notion, is exactly what forms the humble, broken, and perpetually hopeful:
And once you close the book, don't forget to start fresh on a new page, a new story...a new start.
Happy tales, dear readers.
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