I did not know I would put my reading glasses on before the sun came up, or that I would take them off, finally, long after I wanted to be asleep. I didn’t know my very eyes would ache from everything they were being reminded of and seeing anew or discovering for the first time. I didn’t know I would read through the end of summer — even through the sun this year went on and on, like a second summer, like a fierce longing to be in the woods and on the water, like a permanent postcard, like a wrapped gift that couldn’t be opened. I didn’t know I would read through family dinners, birthday parties, grandchildren learning to walk, friends visiting, parents sinking slowly into oblivion. I didn’t know the leaves would change colour on the trees and let go into the wind as it passed, jumping exuberantly, reluctantly, fearfully into another life, as if they too are exhausted by words.