What did the author see that I did not? How could our hearts and spirits be so far apart? I knew it was not of spite, a writer's trick to deceive, no it was not that for there was far too much tenderness, hope and blatant honesty woven on every page. How could the ending, then, be so unexpected and almost cruel that I could not see it coming? There was no sequel to explain or describe the life afterwards. It was, as it ended.
After three or so decades the book whispered again to me as I labored to walk this morning. The whisper gave my body the reprieve it needed as it stopped me mid step. And to the whisper, my own replied, I was wrong, it could not have ended any other way. The very ending, in fact, mirrored and spoke to my reaction -
You cannot deny the beauty and sweetness of a story simply because of the ending.
Since there was no sequel, the reader does not know if that truly was the ending or events conspired to bring about another. Who knows? Maybe. Perhaps the thread, the bookmark is that until you truly grasp the truth and breath of the first ending, the possibility of the beauty and sweetness of another cannot be, you cannot see the tiny sprig of growth, of hope, of life.