Tolstoy and the Purple Chair by Nina Sankovitch Read Free Book Online

to survive, even thrive. And when we can share the beauty, hope is restored.
    People often talk about the importance of living in the here and now, and express envy at how children enjoy their moments of pleasure without dwelling on the past or worrying about the future. Fine, agreed. But it is experience—a life lived—that allows us to recall moments of happiness and feel happy again. It is our ability to relive a moment that gives us strength. Our survival as a species is linked to this ability to remember (which berries not to eat; to stay away from the big toothy animals; to huddle close to fire but not touch it). But survival of our inner selves also depends upon memories. Why else do we have such acute noses? I smell an evergreen and swoon with delight. Why? Because of the many pleasant hours passed at the foot of a Christmas tree. And the smell of popcorn is so seductive because of the movies I’ve enjoyed while eating it. The taste of a good green olive makes me hungry, because an olive or two have accompanied so many delicious meals and flowing wines.
    I stood in my kitchen and looked at my children, my birthday cards set out in a standing row, the school artwork on the walls, and the last zinnias of the year picked and stuffed into a pitcher. Past and present melded together. Cards the same as every year and new cards; artwork from when my oldest was still in kindergarten and his latest piece from ninth grade, alongside paintings, masks, and prints made by his brothers over the years; zinnias planted in the spring and now picked for our pleasure in the fall. Past and present together offer hope for the future. Maybe it was my past and present that would provide the glue for the two parts of me, the part that couldn’t leave Anne-Marie’s hospital room and the part that couldn’t get away fast enough. With books by my side, and my past and my present, all together, I would move into a future. Books, past, and present pushing me up and offering hope from what can be remembered. Offering warning of what should not be forgotten. Tamping back the blood from the harsh cuts of living.
    Could memories of times when I was filled with peace, or overflowing with love, or resplendent in gratitude sustain me through the horror of losing my sister? Renée demonstrated to Paloma—and to me—that if we are mindful enough to grasp the beauty of such moments, we can hang on to those moments forever. Kakuro showed both of them—and me—that such moments are best shared, either in the moment or in memory. And Paloma showed Renée—and me—how life’s possibilities, future memories to find and grasp, can chisel away at imprisoning sorrow.
    I remembered then how entwined memory had come to me before and offered comfort. I spent my junior year of college abroad in Barcelona. One rainy afternoon a few months after I’d settled into life there, I went by myself to the Museu d’Art Modern in the Parc de la Ciutadella. The museum was empty, owing to the weather and the season (not a hot time for tourists), and I took my time walking from room to room. I was thinking about a boy I’d just broken up with. Nico was a sweet boy with a great motorcycle and good looks but not much else. There was no point to my relationship with him, and yet he had been fun to be with. He helped keep my homesickness at bay, and he showed me parts of Barcelona I wouldn’t have found on my own. I had suspected that my entertainment value as the American girl was fading, especially given my reluctance to do more than hold his waist as we weaved in and out of traffic on his motorcycle. We kissed and hugged during our nights out together, but I resisted anything further. I didn’t want to fulfill the reputation of the easy American, and I suspected there was an old girlfriend waiting patiently for him every evening after he dropped me off.
    The evening before my solo trip to the museum, Nico had