A book review is supposed to be about the book, not about you. But what if the book is all about you? What if it resonates so deeply that you can't remember which thoughts came first—yours or the author's? What if the book crystallizes the swirly chaos of love lost and love found—and you can't quite remember the time before that clarity.
I was trying to understand and articulate the greatest loss in my life so far—the death of my father—and my inability to give a name and a shape to that loss was not just frustrating, it seemed to throw into question its actual significance. What did I actually miss about Papa? How to encapsulate the totality of the loss? Because if you can't name it, does it even exist?
Did I miss his love?
Possibly. But Papa's love for me wasn't all that unique. Mummy loves me more...
