tonight i was visiting auntie gail's blog, encouraged by the love her people are pouring out to her as she suffers the loss -- and joys -- of her brother's passing.

and then i sauntered over to her blog post about seth godin ("my two cents: why seth godin shouldn't quit", august 26).  one of my favorite authors too, i found myself loosely intrigued by the whole discussion of his recent decision to discontinue traditional publishing.  a passionate reader, and holder, of physical books, i normally would begin a full-on search to discover just exactly what the guy is up to.  but, given the permission cheryl has given me to have a post-passing dulling effect ("the 24-hour landmark" she called it, at 11:45 pm tonight), i figured that a vague interest would have to suffice for now.  but then -- one of her reader's comments, about 18 comments deep, grabbed me and held on tight:

"I could never give up the tangible, bound book. I, too, highlight Seth’s and a few others’ books with yellow and blue and even stick Post-It tabs on their pages. But the part I really can’t give up is an age old habit when I finish a good book. I close the pages and hold it tight next to my chest like I’m giving it a hug. I don’t know why I have always done that. I close my eyes while it’s right there and try to breathe in the very last words of wisdom that woosh out of it as it closes."

wow, annie binns.  in six simple sentences i am transported again to dad's bedside last night.  the closing of dad's eyes, the holding of my face tight against his chest, my fin, the resting of my head upon his chest as my eyes fill with tears.  i breathe in the very last of him, his breathe that wooshes out as he closes out this life and begins the next.