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In an hour I'll set out for Bethlehem, PA, where I'll spend the day at Moravian Academy, a high school that has dedicated much of this year to stories of self and memory and that selected Handling the Truth as its all-school read as part of the process.

Moravian also invited students and faculty to read three memoirs I recommended—The Answer to The Riddle is Me (David Stuart MacLean), Brown Girl Dreaming (Jacqueline Woodson), and Gabriel (Edward Hirsch).

We'll begin with an all-school assembly and a conversation about non-traditional forms. I'll then travel to two sophomore-level classrooms to workshop emerging student ideas and to talk more deeply about the making of truth.

A day I have anticipated happily for several months now is about to begin.

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I know I was supposed to be watching the Super Bowl, gauging the plumpedness of those laced-up game balls, but I, beneath my furry blanket on the long stretch of the couch, could not take my eyes from Roz Chast's bestselling, award-winning graphic memoir, Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant?

Like Alison Bechdel's Fun Home, Chast's illustrated story of her parents' later years is devastating and also beautiful and finally heart crunching. An only child of two people who have lived inseparably for years, Chast finds herself challenged by the encroachment of their needs and by the intensifying quirks of her parents' respective personalities. The domineering, almost bullying mother. The talks-too-much-and-can't-fix-a-thing-and-has-a-holy-soul father. They live in a four-room Brooklyn apartment crowded by lifelong detritus. They live increasingly afraid of stepping outside. They rely on Roz, but Roz is hardly enough. And when they finally agree to move into an expensive assisted-living facility, things don't get a whole lot easier.

But like Gary Shteyngart's Little Failure, the memoir we'll be unpacking in tomorrow's English 135 at Penn, Chast doesn't allow her confusion to rise to clanging bitterness. Doesn't allow her own disappointment, weariness, frustration, beleaguered condition to transmute into hateful spite. Doesn't tell her story to trump or exploit. She is just telling it as it was—the good she can remember, the empathy she feels, the anger that flashes, the hurt places in between the loved places, the ambiguity she will always feel about her mother and the love she'll always feel for her dad.

It's not a tirade, in other words. It's an archeological dig.

It's here, it's gorgeous, it proves (again, like Edward Hirsch's Gabriel proves, again) how many different ways there are to tell the stories of our lives.

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This morning, before the gears on the work-a-day-world began to turn in earnest, I read "Gabriel: A Poem," Edward Hirsch's book-length elegy for his departed son.

It is hallowed and hollowing, a work of pristine mourning. Memories seamed and broken. Threads that fall away until we see the soul of the boy himself— adopted, challenged by tics and relentless recklessness, the bright splash in a room. He is a child no one can keep safe from himself. A child who goes out during Storm Irene to a party he sees advertised on Craigslist. A child who does not return and cannot be found for four terrible days.

And then he must be buried.

It ransacks the soul, reading a book like this. We peel away as the lines peel away; no periods at the end of any line, no finished sentences. We look and we cannot stop looking until Gabriel, and his searching father, are a part of us.

It is a poem. It is also memoir. Like Jacqueline Woodson's Brown Girl Dreaming it suggests, again, another form for the hardest and most important stories lived. The most important things lost and lifted to the page.

Words:

In his country
There were scenes
Of spectacular carnage

Hurricanes welcomed him
He adored typhoons and tornadoes
Furies unleashed

Houses lifted up
And carried to the sea
Uncontained uncontainable

Unbolt the doors
Fling open the gates
Here he comes

Chaotic wind of the gods
He was trouble
But he was our trouble

With thanks to Nathaniel Popkin, whose craft essay in Cleaver Magazine last week reminded me that I had meant to buy and read this.

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I know I'm out of school and all, but some things have happened this summer to cause me to seriously investigate my family tree. Fortunately, there are simply floors of paintings here in Castle Nyx . . . dozens of dark, mysterious paintings of the Nyx ancestors with eyes that I swear move! Most of them are of people long dead -- great-great-great something-or-others, but there are a few that looked to me as if the paint were fresher. It was these I studied.

First, in the hall to the first floor dining room was an old portrait of a cat-eyed woman dressed for safari. According to the brass plate screwed into the frame, this was my wicked Auntie Fae, who disappeared somewhere in the Australian Outback in '89. With a little help (1-800-CUZFNDR) I discovered my Aunt had had a son some years ago whom she had abandoned on the steps of the Public Library of New South Wales in Sydney. Trooper Cordell.

Second, in the west wing, just below the servants quarters, hung a portrait all in greys -- a face I could barely distinguish beneath the strange cape and hood he wore. Coincidentally (dun-dun-dun) as I pondered, the door rang and there stood a hooded figure claiming to be a Nyx cousin thrice removed - an enigmatic shadow-boy with arms full of books who called himself the Velvet Pickle.

Third, in the observatory is a portrait of someone Grandmama calls "That cousin who lurks on the moors." Of course my ears perked up at the word cousin -- but it turned out he was dead 54 years past, or was he? I stowed away on the next ship to Cardiff to find my dark eyed cousin (or is it his descendant?) Gabriel Gethin, who was wandering the moors with a dog-eared paperback copy of Wuthering Heights clutched in his long fingers and looking not a day past 16.

By now I'm sure you're wondering, where are Twyla's dearest evil cousins, Avery and Aislinn? Sadly, oh so sadly for me, they have spread their wings and started their own blog of reviews called nineseveneight. Read them, I command it, for though they have broken my dark heart, they write the most fawesome of reviews.

Welcome my 3 long lost cousins, and fare thee well Avery and Aislinn. I pray you'll stop by for a visit, my dearest ones -- for you will always be my Evil Cousins!

Yours truly,
Twyla Lee

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