Torn

The day before my son's school exploded, he asked me if heaven has a zip code. We're having breakfast, me the usual fruit yogurt, Noah his mandatory Cocoa Puffs, cup of 'puffs' to one-half cup milk, precisely. He licks his spoon, gives me that wide-eyed mommy-will-know look, and asks the big question.

"Not a real zip code," he adds, "a pretend zip code, like for Santa. Like for writing a letter to Dad. Just to say hello, let him know we're okay and everything."

It's a strange and wonderful thing, the mind of a ten-year-old child. Last night, as we read our book before bed—the very exciting Stormrider—Noah had asked, out of nowhere, "How we doing, Mom?"

We'd both known exactly what he meant by that—the slow, painful rebuilding of our world—and without missing a beat I'd responded, "We're doing okay," and he'd filed it away in his amazing brain and twelve hours later, out pops the idea of writing a letter to his dead father.

"You write it," I suggest, "I'll find out about the zip code."

"Deal," he says, and grins to himself, mission accomplished.

Then he calmly and methodically finishes his cereal.

My husband, Jed, used to say that Humble, New York, was ... read full excerpt from: Torn ebook