Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

the music would run down my legs, at the end of each day I would take the book to bed with me and read through the pages of my life:
    I want two rolls
    And I wouldn't say no to something sweet
    I'm sorry, this is the smallest I've got
    Start spreading the news...
    The regular, please
    Thank you, but I'm about to burst
    I'm not sure, but it's late
    Help
    Ha ha ha!
    It wasn't unusual for me to run out of blank pages before the end of the day, so should I have to say something to someone on the street or in the bakery or at the bus stop, the best I could do was flip back through the daybook and find the most fitting page to recycle, if someone asked me, “How are you feeling?” it might be that my best response was to point at, “The regular, please,” or perhaps, “And I wouldn't say no to something sweet,” when my only friend, Mr. Richter, suggested, “What if you tried to make a sculpture again? What's the worst thing that could happen?” I shuffled halfway into the filled book: “I'm not sure, but it's late.” I went through hundreds of books, thousands of them, they were all over the apartment, I used them as doorstops and paperweights, I stacked them if I needed to reach something, I slid them under the legs of wobbly tables, I used them as trivets and coasters, to line the birdcages and to swat insects from whom I begged forgiveness, I never thought of my books as being special, only necessary, I might rip out a page—“I'm sorry, this is the smallest I've got”—to wipe up some mess, or empty a whole day to pack up the emergency light bulbs, I remember spending an afternoon with Mr. Richter in the Central Park Zoo, I went weighted down with food for the animals, only someone who'd never been an animal would put up a sign saying not to feed them, Mr. Richter told a joke, I tossed hamburger to the lions, he rattled the cages with his laughter, the animals went to the corners, we laughed and laughed, together and separately, out loud and silently, we were determined to ignore whatever needed to be ignored, to build a new world from nothing if nothing in our world could be salvaged, it was one of the best days of my life, a day during which I lived my life and didn't think about my life at all. Later that year, when snow started to hide the front steps, when morning became evening as I sat on the sofa, buried under everything I'd lost, I made a fire and used my laughter for kindling: “Ha ha ha!” “Ha ha ha!” “Ha ha ha!” “Ha ha ha!” I was already out of words when I met your mother, that may have been what made our marriage possible, she never had to know me. We met at the Columbian Bakery on Broadway, we'd both come to New York lonely, broken and confused, I was sitting in the corner stirring cream into coffee, around and around like a little solar system, the place was half
    empty but she slid right up next to me, “You've lost everything,” she said, as if we were sharing a secret, “I can see.” If I'd been someone else in a different world I'd've done something different, but I was myself, and the world was the world, so I was silent, “It's OK,” she whispered, her mouth too close to my ear, “Me too. You can probably see it from across a room. It's not like being Italian. We stick out like sore thumbs. Look at how they look. Maybe they don't know that we've lost everything, but they know something's off.” She was the tree and also the river flowing away from the tree, “There are worse things,” she said, “worse than being like us. Look, at least we're alive,” I could see that she wanted those last words back, but the current was too strong, “And the weather is one hundred dollars, also, don't let me forget to mention,” I stirred my coffee. “But I hear it's supposed to get crummy tonight. Or that's what the man on the radio said, anyway,” I shrugged, I didn't know what “crummy” meant, “I was gonna go buy some tuna fish at the A&P. I clipped some coupons from the Post this morning. They're five cans for the price of three. What a deal! I don't even like tuna fish. It gives me stomachaches, to be frank. But you can't beat that price,” she was trying to make me laugh, but I shrugged my shoulders and stirred my coffee, “I don't know anymore,” she said. “The weather is one hundred dollars, and the man on the radio says it's gonna get crummy tonight, so maybe I should go to the park instead, even if I burn easily. And anyway, it's not like I'm gonna