Books that Make Me Cry

I don't recommend every book I read; nor do I admit to shedding tears over most books. The Glass Castle, however, is an exception to both these statements. The poignant memoir of a dismal childhood, spoken from the voice of the child who lived it, sheds such eery light on what most of us don't allow ourselves to remember in the vivid detail of Jeannette Walls: our parents' flaws. Years ago I sought counseling to make sense of my own dismal upbringing. It's a good thing, because it allowed me to remember details of my childhood that no one but my brothers could have known. And yet neither of them remembers the same details I do. Why is that?

Why does one child remember an incident as a nightmare, while another remembers nothing? I remember my father's brutality in vivid details: the sounds of my brothers begging for him to stop; holding my breath for fear they would stop screaming and die; my mother's conspicuous absences at these times; the embarrassment that the neighbors heard and knew my father behaved like an animal and treated his children like animals; the guilt of being somehow at fault for my brothers' beatings, when I escaped them completely.

I'm so glad my father is dead, so that we survivors -- his children -- can forget the memories, can forget him. I'm glad my mother is dead, so that we can't blame her for not having a part in these memories.

I guess that's why I cry when I read certain books. The Glass Castle is one.