It has been raining solidly for three days now, but this morning it is quiet outside. Our winter rains do that…dump for a few days, catch their breath, then dump again. I’ve been laid up with a swollen knee so haven’t been out to clear the leaves from the gutter in front of the house. If they build up, the drain in front of our drive clogs and our end of the block becomes a small lake. The neighbor across the street, we’ve known him since he was a boy some thirty years ago, came out in the rain, cleared his drain, then came across to clear ours. We’ve done this for years, informally taking turns to clear leaves. It is not something we have talked about. We just do it because that is what neighbors do. At any rate, he cleared our drain, then raked all of the leaves from across our front into a pile for the street sweeper due in a day or two. Lydia was on the phone but, watching out the door. She interrupted her conversation, stepped outside and yelled a sincere thank you to him. It was a kind moment.

I typically have two or three books being read at any one time. I switch between them as the mood takes me. I am on electronic mailing lists and have books ordered before they have been released. I like to read an author’s entire series, first to last. There are three or four writers whose works I have followed for years. They each have a section on our crowded bookcases. A month or so ago I received the just released, final volume of a series I have enjoyed tremendously. These books are not “great” literature in the classical sense but, they are well-written, with solid character development and plausible plots. I enjoy them and there is little more enjoyable than settling into my chair with a cup of coffee and a good book in the quiet dark of an early morning.

 So, why haven’t I started to read the latest novel? For most of the month, it has been on the top of my dresser, where I left it. I’ve stuck to reading just one book at a time and only took down the new text a few days ago. Since then I have only read the first chapter. It is as good as I had hoped.

I don’t really want to delve into suspension of disbelief and deferment of gratification. However, it is apparent that in a good book, the characters assume a reality within us. We view their lives and actions, learn their lessons, and, in a sense, become acquaintances, if not friends.  (That is suspension of disbelief.) Freud went to considerable depth about deferment of gratification but, it all boils down to accepting reality over fantasy (pleasure) and putting off that pleasure for real (and more important is implied) issues is a sign of maturity.

How does that explain why I don’t jump right into the book on my dresser?

I know that this is the last book. At some point that ol’ hero is either going to die or ride off into the fictional sunset. We’re done. No more adventures; not even the occasional holiday card to wish each other well. And here is the deal. At my age, I’m saying a lot of goodbyes. Friends are dying, the world is changing. I know it has to happen. Physical abilities are fading. No more long walks without my oxygen tank.  I am not feeling sorry for myself here; reality is often unpleasant but, it is the way of things. They are the things I cannot control.

Which leads me back to the book on the dresser. I know the story will be enthralling; they always are but, I also know that in some 300 hundred pages, I will have to say goodbye. This hearkens back to graduation, the similar feeling of a goal accomplished but, tempered by the farewells associated. I am reluctant to get to that point. Fictional friends are hard to find.

Some day soon, I will pick up that book and, in a few dark mornings of reading my friend and I will come to an end of some sort.

I guess I’d better go to the library.

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