Buku Seize the Night (9780739341377) by Dean Koontz & Keith Szarabajka
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Seize the Night (9780739341377) by Dean Koontz & Keith Szarabajka

Author:Dean Koontz & Keith Szarabajka [Koontz, Dean & Szarabajka, Keith]

Language: eng

Format: epub

Amazon: B00VX8A5QC

Publisher: Random House

Published: 1998-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

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Seize the Night (9780739341377) by Dean Koontz & Keith Szarabajka

17

Sasha parked the Explorer in the driveway, because my father’s car was in the garage, as were boxes of his clothing and his personal effects. The day would come, with his death far enough in the past, when I would not feel that disposing of his belongings would diminish him in my memory. I was not at that day yet.

In this matter, I know I’m being illogical. My memories of my dad, which give me sustaining strength every day, are not related to what clothes he wore on any particular occasion, to his favorite sweater or his silver-rimmed reading glasses. His things do not keep him vivid in my mind; he stays with me because of his kindness, his wit, his courage, his love, his joy in life. Yet twice in the three weeks since I’ve packed up his clothes, I’ve torn open one of the boxes in the garage simply to have a look at those reading glasses, at that sweater. In such moments I can’t escape the truth that I’m not coping as well as I pretend to be. The cataract of grief is a longer drop than Niagara, and I guess I’ve not yet reached the river of acceptance at the bottom.

 

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Seize the Night (9780739341377) by Dean Koontz & Keith Szarabajka

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Seize the Night (9780739341377) by Dean Koontz & Keith Szarabajka

Author:Dean Koontz & Keith Szarabajka [Koontz, Dean & Szarabajka, Keith] , Date: June 25, 2019

,Views: 79

Author:Dean Koontz & Keith Szarabajka [Koontz, Dean & Szarabajka, Keith]

Language: eng

Format: epub

Amazon: B00VX8A5QC

Publisher: Random House

Published: 1998-07-15T00:00:00+00:00
17

Sasha parked the Explorer in the driveway, because my father’s car was in the garage, as were boxes of his clothing and his personal effects. The day would come, with his death far enough in the past, when I would not feel that disposing of his belongings would diminish him in my memory. I was not at that day yet.

In this matter, I know I’m being illogical. My memories of my dad, which give me sustaining strength every day, are not related to what clothes he wore on any particular occasion, to his favorite sweater or his silver-rimmed reading glasses. His things do not keep him vivid in my mind; he stays with me because of his kindness, his wit, his courage, his love, his joy in life. Yet twice in the three weeks since I’ve packed up his clothes, I’ve torn open one of the boxes in the garage simply to have a look at those reading glasses, at that sweater. In such moments I can’t escape the truth that I’m not coping as well as I pretend to be. The cataract of grief is a longer drop than Niagara, and I guess I’ve not yet reached the river of acceptance at the bottom.

When I got out of the Explorer, I didn’t hurry into the house, though the grizzled morning was now almost fully upon us. The day did little to restore the color that the night had stolen from the world; indeed, the smoky light seemed to deposit an ash-gray residue on everything, muting tones, dulling shiny surfaces. The cumulative UV damage I would sustain in this shineless sunshine was a risk worth taking to spend one minute admiring the two oaks in the front yard.

These California live oaks, beautifully crowned and with great canopies of strong black limbs, tower over the house, shading it in every season, because unlike eastern oaks, they don’t drop their leaves in winter. I have always loved these trees, have climbed high into them on many nights to get closer to the stars, but lately they mean more to me than ever because they remind me of my parents, who had the strength to make the sacrifices in their own lives required to raise a child with my disabilities and who gave me the shade to thrive.

The weight of this leaden dawn had pressed all the wind out of the day. The oaks were as monolithic as sculpture, each leaf like a petal of cast bronze.

After a minute, calmed by the deep stillness of the trees, I crossed the lawn to the house.

This Craftsman-period structure features stacked ledger stone and weather-silvered cedar under a slate roof, with deep eaves and an expansive front porch, all modern lines yet natural and close to the earth. It is the only home I’ve ever known, and considering both the average life span of an XPer and my talent for getting my ass in a sling, it’s no doubt where I’ll live until I die.

Sasha had unlocked the front door by the time I got there, and I followed her into the foyer.

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