Don’t say anything

… but fiction-resistant me picked up a copy of  “Anna Karenina” from the bookshelf last night to have something to read in bed. Julie walked through the room, saw what I was doing, and said, “Good book,” in that tentative way that mothers speak to their child as the little one stares at a plate of green peas, contemplating whether or not to take that first-ever bite.

This morning, after pre-dawn prayers and a walk with the dog through the neighborhood, I thought, “Those first few chapters were pretty good. I’d like some more.” I fetched the book, settled down in my leather armchair by the fireplace, and started reading again. If I didn’t have to go into Baton Rouge early this morning to do Christmas shopping, there I would still be.

This is promising.