I'm in the final 50 pages of The Warmth of Other Suns. Just picking it up less than 3 weeks ago, I haven't been able to put down the 600 page book, but the final pages have me halting in my tracks with no desire to read the conclusion.
Let me tell you why. The Warmth of Other Suns so beautifully narrates the lives of three African Americans from the deep South who migrate to Chicago, New York, and California in search of a better life; a life void of Jim Crow and prejudicial obstacles. The book has chronicled their journeys through marriages, babies, jobs, disappointments, and triumphs. In the final pages, you see Robert, George, and Ida Mae as deteriorating beings with their generation dying around them, and the present generation utterly unaware of the past.
The concluding chapters certainly tell a less triumphant story, and it's made me realize my own mortality. It's said that at the ages of 35 and 50, a woman can look in the mirror only to realize that she doesn't recognize the woman staring back at her. As much as I would like to put on my brave face and commit to aging gracefully, heavens, it just scares me.
It also poignantly directs me to ponder and invest on the moments and experiences that will define significance to me when my body and mind wanes.
This blog was prompted by this photo series . . . mesmerizing and sobering.