Afraid to Read

My husband has very good taste in books. I don’t know how he does it but he manages to find books that are really good among the stacks of bestsellers designed to get a person on the subway from point A to point B without missing their stop. He finds books that make you want to ride on until the book is done. His last suggestion was “The True Story of Hansel and Gretel” and I loved every beautifully, painfully crafted page. I picked out the next book by myself and it is so boring and redundant, I stopped midway, unable to believe it made it into print. There is not a single character I care enough about to turn another page. I find myself resisting his latest suggestions though. I am reluctant to begin anything good knowing that it will end. By the same token, I can’t bring myself to get another dog. Dogs and good books are two things that require a commitment knowing full well that they will end, that you will have to go on without them, paying the emotional tax of losing them. Anyone who has ever loved and lost a dog knows what I am talking about. The hole they leave in your life can never be filled. Even now, years after my Roma passed, I cannot drive through Fairfield Hills without seeing her walking up the hill with me, so happy in her outing, only to discover moments later that she was in incredible pain and would have to be put down because of bone cancer in a few short weeks. So it is with characters in books that I come to love and then have to leave, wondering about what they will do next. I am worried about Gretel and the scars she bears. Will Hansel ever be able to trust anyone or will he always sleep with one eye open? My husband is already a few books ahead of me and I sigh looking at them on my nightstand, afraid to take the plunge.