Writing about grief challenges the novelist, but when it’s done well it provides a rewarding experience for the reader. As human beings, we don’t get a manual on how to grieve, but culture sets up expectations about how we should grieve. In reality, individuals respond to loss in their own way, and reading about how someone else reacts can help us come to grips with our own responses.
Nuff said about that. In the following excerpt, Cork O’Connor, at age twelve or thirteen, has stifled his feelings since his father was killed. As he helps Sam Winter Moon put plywood over the windows of Sam’s Place, the burger stand they’re closing down for the winter, Sam talks about Cork’s father.
Excerpt from Vermillion Drift, by William Kent Krueger:
“You know,” Sam said around a nail gripped in his teeth, “that man could outfart a draft horse. Hold your side up a little higher, Cork” He took the nail from between his teeth and positioned it.
Cork thought it a little unseemly, speaking of his father that way, but he held his tongue.
“We were canoeing once up on Angle Lake. Came around a point headed for the next portage. There not five feet away was a bull moose, munching on lakeweed. We startled him as much as he startled us. That animal lowered his head and was about to do real damage to our canoe and probably to us in the bargain. Your father, he farts and it’s likie cannon fire. Echoes off the trees. Sends a tidal wave across the lake. Scares the crap out of that bull moose. The critter turns and hightails it.” Sam was laughing hard enough that he couldn’t hammer. He leaned against the Quonset hut for support and finished, breathless. “And then your father, he says, ‘I just hope we don’t run into a bear, Sam. I’m clean outta ammo’.”
Cork stood holding up his side of the plywood, watching Sam Winter Moon laugh heartily.
“It’s okay, Cork,” Sam said. “It’s okay to laugh. It was something your father loved to do.”
And Cork did laugh. He laughed so hard tears began to squeeze from his eyes, and before he knew it, he was crying. Sam Winter Moon laid his hammer down and took Cork’s hands from the plywood, wrapped his big arms around the weeping boy, and held him.
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Reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another’s skin, another’s voice, another’s soul.
–Joyce Carol Oates