Set in the 1920’s, the book opens in the voice of a childless woman haunted by the image of her stillborn baby. Eowyn Ivey’s language makes me forget for the moment that I’m motherless: “Through the window, the night air appeared dense, each snowflake slowed in its long, tumbling fall through the black.” It transports me to Alaska, a place I still call home even though I only lived there for seven years while my husband was with the U.S. Mother’s Day, in particular, is always hard for me, because I lost my mother and brother to the same disease when I was twenty-one. I’ll crank up the air conditioner and read in my pajamas, imagining myself cozy in the log cabin that I used to own in the mountains beside Eagle River, Alaska. That’s how I plan to spend the day, curled up on my sofa under the softest blanket I can find. If you’re looking for a good read on Mother’s Day, The Snow Child is a perfect choice.
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