amidthestars:

Another weekend at my parents' house. It was quiet, kind of strange. My dad has had some pretty major health issues recently, and although he's doing well now, there are still a lot of unknowns. The house was full of a weird energy - a mix of fragility and sadness and anger and avoidance. No one was themselves. 

On Saturday night, I had a long talk with my mom about the Anglican church. I didn't get so far as to tell her about my Sunday morning Cathedral habits, but I suspect she knows. I talked about some of the things I struggle with, the things I feel I can't abide by anymore in the Catholic world. I was pretty open about what I've come to learn about the Anglican church, and I'm sure she's figured out how I learned it. She didn't ask. I couldn't bring myself to say. But I know I should. I will, eventually. 

Before we went to bed, we were sitting in the backyard, next to the fire. It was dark, stars everywhere. We'd been talking about religion for about an hour, each of us with a beer in hand. She asked if there was an Anglican church in the next town over (there certainly is not one in our town). I said yes. She said, "I kind of want to go tomorrow morning. I want to see what it's like." 

So we went. It felt a little bit like someone was reading my diary. I don't think she liked it very much, but she was a very good sport. And I feel like her curiosity was at least halfway a sham. She might have been curious, but I also think she knew I wanted to go.

My dad and I, instead of talking about his health, talked about bookshelves. And by "talked," I mean he was determined to convince me that I did not need any. How does a person not need bookshelves? Especially a person who owns as many books as I do? They are currently all in storage, in my parents' basement, and I want to get them out of there. And I've been trying to make my apartment feel more like home, and that means books. 

My dad insisted, "They'll take up space. They cost money. Think about what you're going to do with them if you ever have to move."

I have no plans to move, and my apartment is borderline cavernous there is so much empty space here, and I have a good job and it's possible to find bookshelves that are not that expensive.

But when he said it, the clouds parted and angels descended from the heavens blaring trumpets and singing, "Thiis is where you geetttt it fromm!"

Because how many times have I stood before just about anything - a loaf of bread, a compact of blush, a respectably-sized frying pan, fabric for curtains - and said those exact words?

On the way home this evening, I stopped and picked up not just one bookshelf, but two.

And now I can't sleep, by which I mean I don't want to try. The weekend was so weird, so heavy in ways I'm not sure how to name and have only a very little bit to do with shelving units. I don't want tomorrow to come yet. I haven't made sense of today.