I finished New Amsterdam three days ago, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. I try to put it out of my mind, to focus on my current book, to think about something — anything — else, but no matter how hard I try, I keep coming back to it. Poking it, prodding it, talking about it, turning it over and over and trying to get some sense of closure, of understanding. This morning, it occurred to me:
I’m grieving.
I don’t get this way over books very often. I get emotional, certainly. I laugh, I love, I hate, I rage. But I don’t cry, almost never. The last time I remember crying over a book was when I read Where the Red Fern Grows in elementary school, and my mom came home and found me lying on the carpet, bawling. I might have cried over Bridge to Terabithia, too, but I’m not certain.
I don’t cry over books, but I very nearly cried over New Amsterdam.
In any case, this revelation got me thinking about the five stages of grief, and by golly, I’ve gone through every one of them but the last.
