A voracious reader, Tony could devour one book a week. After he closed his company of over 30 years, just before the pandemic, he spent most of his time reading. His favorite haunt: Book Sale, where he’d buy books by the dozen.
He always took a book with him wherever he/we went—to the mall, a resto, a coffee shop, etc. I took the photo below in a bistro before our food was served.
In between reading, he’d solve puzzles that came with the newspaper we bought daily, or play chess on his cellphone. Before bedtime, he’d watch historical, war movies, and travelogues (“Because I can no longer travel there.”)
At any time during those activities, I could disturb him with my inane prattle about anything that popped in my head while writing my next book. He would indulge me. Whether he listened or not, well, that is irrelevant.
But.
When he was on the last 40 pages of his book, no disaster—not even of a world-ending magnitude—could make him stir. We had to tiptoe around him.
I was not surprised when he brought a book (crime fiction) when we rushed him to the hospital on New Year’s day. Every day, in bed through the first week, he would ask for it alternately with his cellphone. But my gut tells me he never reached the last 40 pages, because we could disturb him anytime, unless he was asleep. 
As I proofread the last 40 pages of my new book yesterday (my deadline is February!), I profusely thanked the Author of life for love of reading, a comforting grace not only for readers like Tony was but for grieving writers like I am.
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18
