I’m home alone, flipping through a Bannerman military goods catalogue from 1940, and the sound of that brought back a memory. When I was five and my mom still lived in my father’s house she’d lull me to sleep from the next room by reading a magazine. The sound of her presence made me feel safe enough to trust closing my eyes. Its absence, silence, had the opposite effect on me. “Mom, I don’t hear you turning the pages,” I’d whine from my tiny bedroom. She’d increase the speed of her fingers moving paper to comfort me from the couch, the lamp light casting shadows on my ceiling. What I wouldn’t give to be back there right now. We never know how good we’ve got it at the time.
