Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

us? He spent hours in his shed every night. Sometimes he would sleep in there. On the floor.
    He wanted to save the world. That's what he was like. But he wouldn't put our family in danger. That's what he was like. He must have weighed my life against a life he might have been able to save. Or ten. Or one hundred. He must have decided that my life weighed more than one hundred lives.
    His hair turned gray that winter. I thought it was snow. He promised us that everything would be OK. I was a child, but I knew that everything would not be OK. That did not make my father a liar. It made him my father.
    It was the morning of the bombing that I decided to write back to the forced laborer. I do not know why I waited for so long, or what made me want to write to him then.
    He had asked me to include a photograph of myself. I did not have any photographs of myself that I liked. I understand, now, the tragedy of my childhood. It wasn't the bombing. It was that I never once liked a photograph of myself. I couldn't.
    I decided I would go to a photographer the next day and have a picture taken.
    That night I tried on all of my outfits in front of the mirror. I felt like an ugly movie star. I asked my mother to teach me about makeup. She didn't ask why.
    She showed me how to rouge my cheeks. And how to paint my eyes. She had never touched my face so much. There had never been an excuse to.
    My forehead. My chin. My temples. My neck. Why was she crying?
    I left the unfinished letter on my desk.
    The paper helped our house burn.
    I should have sent it off with an ugly photograph.
    I should have sent off everything.
    The airport was filled with people coming and going. But it was only your grandfather and me.
    I took his daybook and searched its pages. I pointed at, How frustrating, how pathetic, how sad.
    He searched through the book and pointed at, The way you just handed me that knife.
    I pointed at, If I'd been someone else in a different world I'd've done something different.
    He pointed at, Sometimes one simply wants to disappear.
    I pointed at, There's nothing wrong with not understanding yourself.
    He pointed at, How sad.
    I pointed at, And I wouldn't say no to something sweet.
    He pointed at, Cried and cried and cried.
    I pointed at, Don't cry.
    He pointed at, Broken and confused.
    I pointed at, So sad.
    He pointed at, Broken and confused.
    I pointed at, Something.
    He pointed at, Nothing.
    I pointed at, Something.
    Nobody pointed at, I love you.
    There was no way around it. We could not climb over it, or walk until we found its edge.
    I regret that it takes a life to learn how to live, Oskar. Because if I were able to live my life again, I would do things differently.
    I would change my life.
    I would kiss my piano teacher, even if he laughed at me.
    I would jump with Mary on the bed, even if I made a fool of myself.
    I would send out ugly photographs, thousands of them.
    What are we going to do? he wrote.
    It's up to you, I said.
    He wrote, I want to go home.
    What is home to you?
    Home is the place with the most rules.
    I understood him.
    And we will have to make more rules, I said.
    To make it more of a home.
    Yes.
    OK.
    We went straight to the jewelry store. He left the suitcase in the back room. We sold a pair of emerald earrings that day. And a diamond engagement ring. And a gold bracelet for a little girl. And a watch for someone on his way to Brazil.
    That night we held each other in bed. He kissed me all over. I believed him. I was not stupid. I was his wife.
    The next morning he went to the airport. I didn't dare feel his suitcase.
    I waited for him to come home.
    Hours passed. And minutes.
    I didn't open the store at 11:00.
    I waited by the window. I still believed in him.
    I didn't eat lunch.
    Seconds passed.
    The afternoon left. The evening came.
    I didn't eat dinner.
    Years were passing through the spaces between moments.
    Your father kicked in my belly.
    What was he trying to tell me?
    I brought the birdcages to the windows.
    I opened the windows, and opened the birdcages.
    I poured the fish down the drain.
    I took the dogs and cats downstairs and removed their collars.
    I released the insects onto the street.
    And the reptiles.
    And the mice.
    I told them, Go.
    All of you.
    Go.
    And they went.
    And they didn't come back.

HAPPINESS, HAPPINESS
    INTERVIEWER. Can you describe the events of that morning?
    TOMOYASU. I left home with my daughter, Masako. She was on her way to work. I was going to see a friend.