Dear Edward by Anna Politano

I was not prepared for Dear Edward. Nothing could have prepared me. Not for the complexity, beauty, and grace with which the story unfolded, easing me effortlessly into the current. Not for how my heart briefly stopped the moment I realized what each chapter was drawing me closer to. Not for the almost-end, the most painful and heartbreaking scene I have ever experienced while inside a book. Nor for the end-end, where, still crying, my heart carefully mostly repaired itself.

Everything was beautiful, and everything hurt. I don’t know how to untangle myself from this one. I don’t particularly want to.

[Image: Me, sitting cross-legged on the ground holding a copy of Ann Napolitano’s book, Dear Edward. After staying up late to finish it last night, I went into my son’s room and just stood there for a very long time.]

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