Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Yasmen: Oh, yeah. You will for sure, Sol.
Hendrix: I’ll start on the flight home. Love you, bitches.
Yasmen: Travel safe. Love.
Me: Love
I prop the book on my knees, which are pulled up under my cloud-esque duvet. It’s such a great chapter on self-love and fragile self-esteem and breaking from old patterns. My hands can’t keep up with my heart while I try to highlight all the truths dotted throughout these pages. It’s like a treasure map I’ve found at exactly the right time. bell hooks is reaching through the years to tell me I should take responsibility in all areas of my life, to believe I have the capacity to reinvent my life and shape the future around my well-being. There’s even a whole section on satisfied homemakers and the joy of self-determination and being your own boss. Each word is like a punch to the chest and a pat on the back. I’m encouraged and provoked at every turn. So much of it connects to my own life deeply that I consider stopping for the night to fully process all I’ve read.
“I’m still not sure what Yasmen thought was so special for me,” I tell my empty bedroom.
I decide to read a little more to finish the chapter. I’m nodding when she discusses creating domestic bliss, a household where love can flourish.
“Spot on,” I say, reaching for a handful of the roasted almonds I keep by my bed for the night growls. My hand stills midreach when I read the next line. hooks calls her house in the country a sanctuary and refers to it as “soledad hermosa.”
The brakes in my head screech, bringing me to a complete stop.
My name. Right here in the book that is slowly but surely restitching the fabric of who I am.
Soledad hermosa. Beautiful solitude.
Tears prick my eyes, spill over my lashes. It feels like a sign that I’m headed in the right direction, like a letter hooks sent encouraging me that I can be alone and not lonely. That this journey I’m on solo right now can be beautiful. I can be content. That my very name reflects this pursuit I’m on of renewal, understanding who I’ve been and who I’m becoming. Seeing my name in ink on paper in this context sprinkles goose bumps along my arms.
I close the book and, instead of returning it to my nightstand, lay it on the pillow where Edward used to sleep. My dreams aren’t haunted by the past or all the cruel things he did to me. I dream about a bright future of my own making.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
JUDAH
MawMaw.”
Aaron’s voice gives me pause during dinner as I’m making sure none of my foods touch. I detest close food proximity.
“What about her?” I ask, giving him my full attention.
He lifts the communication device hanging around his neck and scrolls for a few seconds before finding what he’s looking for. When he turns it toward me, he displays a photo of my mother.
“Yeah!” Adam says from his side of the table. “Let’s FaceTime MawMaw!”
“Maybe after dinner.” I scoop string beans onto their plates.
“Or we could eat while we FaceTime,” Adam wheedles, rocking on the yoga ball he brings to the dinner table sometimes. He has one at school too, for his desks there. When he’s forced to balance on the ball, it gives his extra energy somewhere to go, engages his core, and helps him focus.
Aaron again turns around the device showing my mother’s face, his insistent bid to eat and talk. He prefers FaceTime. Sometimes when he’s talking to someone on the phone, he just walks away. Something about the phone up against his ear starts to bother him. That’s how I feel half the time when I’m on the phone too. Like just dropping it as soon as I’m bored and walking away without even saying goodbye. The world would be a simpler, albeit ruder, place if we all lacked the ability to dissemble that way.
“She may not even be available,” I warn them.
But she is, so we find ourselves all sitting on one side of the kitchen table with my phone propped up so we can chat with MawMaw.
“What is that you’re eating?” she asks, narrowing her eyes from the screen. “Chicken?”
“Yeah,” I confirm, taking a bite. “Ms. Coleman made chicken, brown rice, and string beans. The boys have mac and cheese, but will eat some string beans.”
I aim my fork at the untouched green beans on their plates.
“Thank God for that woman helping around the house,” Mama says. “And cooking, but I want to make you some of my stew. I could ship it.”
“Ship it?” I pause and send a skeptical look to the screen. “How about you ship yourself on a flight? Maryland isn’t that far from Atlanta.”
“If Maryland isn’t that far from Atlanta,” Mama says, “and flights go both ways, ship yourself. Why haven’t you brought my grandsons to see me?”