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Just finished my second reading of Cormac McCarthy's The Road. And the thing that has struck me, every time I've sat down for one of the countless micro-installments that have comprised my two readings of it, is how uncannily the voice of the little boy resembles that of my grandson.

More than that, how the spare and scattered bits of dialogue invoke his spirit and at times even capture the character of our relationship. On my side, the role of protector, caregiver, and would-be mentor. On his, the role of naive innocent, imperfectly protected from the brutality of a world in which any hope, beyond day-to-day survival, is never fully formed and only briefly glimpsed.

And in between we live the grim reality of the road, take our daily steps into that uncertain future. Confront the likelihood that regardless of what luck I may have or what effort I might make to extend my own life, there is little chance that I will see this infinitely-precious child through much more than the very beginnings of his.

Perhaps it is life's only mercy that we cannot know the future within a reasonable certainty...

LPK
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5.24.2013

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