To Own a Dragon

I had a little tax return money. Not much, and I could have used it all for bills, but I took Carman to Barnes and Noble and splurged on new books for both of us. I felt kind of bad because I decided that he could only have one, so he chose the XBox 360 guide to Oblivion, when he really wanted Oblivion and Velvet Elvis. As soon as I can, I'll have to go back and buy Velvet Elvis. But now I'm reading Don Miller's new book To Own a Dragon to him, and he's becoming enamored of Miller, so Blue Like Jazz might be next on his list.

I wanted to read out loud because I wanted us to share this together. I was just going to read one chapter, but neither of us wanted to stop, so I read another. And then another. We're well into Chapter 5 now, and he was falling asleep in his bed when I stopped. I haven't read a book out loud to him in a long time; most mothers don't get to read their 16-year-old sons to sleep anymore.

What I didn't expect was that this book would be so emotional for me. As I'm reading Don Miller's story of life without a father, I am reading my son's story. And because I am his mother, I feel the unavoidable heartache my son must go through, and a sense of responsibility for giving him a father who has chosen not to be a dad. There's a lot that choked me up tonight, and tears aren't something that come that easily to me unless I'm watching some sappy TV show. But Carman asked me lots of questions about his own father, and about my dad, who died when I was 17, and then wanted to know what I thought my dad would think of him. The thought of my dad knowing my son, just that thought alone, brought a lump to my throat. I know without a doubt how much my dad would love him, and I told Carman all the reasons why my dad would love him so much.

But when I was reading this part of the book, I had to stop for a moment because I lost my voice in tears when Miller's words echoed what I think so many fatherless sons must face:

...It was the week before Father's Day, and a few of my friends had told me they were planning large dinners or trips to be with their dads. Perhaps it was because I was operating on so little sleep following a trip I had take - or perhaps it was because Father's Day is a foreign concept to me, like celebrating relationships with aliens - but on a particular night, I felt my soul collapsing. I was struggling against a writing deadline and feeling, as I often do, that whatever book I wrote would only hit the world as a burden to its library. I wanted a father to walk through the door and tell me this wasn't true, that I was here on purpose, and I had a purpose, and that a family and a father and even a world needed me to exist to make himself and themselves more happy. And it occurred ot me, then, that a father was not going to walk through the door, that there would be no encouragement, there would be no voice of calm, there would be no larger, mature elephant whose presence would correct the stray thoughts in my mind. It occurred to me this would never, ever happen. For the first time in my life, I realized, deep down, I never had a dad.

I don't cry much, but on that night I did. I lost it. I shoved my computer aside and bured my head in my pillow like a child and sobbed. I sobbed for nearly an hour. I hate saying this because it sounds so weak, and I don't like dramatics, but I remember the night quite well and there was no question something busted open.

Somebody said that realizing we are broken is the beginning of healing. And for me, some of the healing began that night.