There’s a tv above the gas fireplace but she’d rather have her mom read a story.
There’s a comfortable chair that rocks nearby but she’d rather they be on the floor.
There’s a lap of her mother’s that one would think could best provide the intimate setting by which to hear of the silly antics and conversations of vegetables and animals that actually talk.
But no.
For this little one, the only possible way to enter the world of fantasy, and dreams come true, where outlandish artistry splashes each page with imagery that captures her mind and heart, is from her favorite perch upon the shoulders of her mother where her hands are folded and her chin rests, her legs dangling, the pages turning, and occasional giggles and squeezes indicate that no, she has not gone to sleep.
“Just one more book mommy?”
Nearby is the couch upon which her grandmother lay not many months before and there too a story was read by her husband during their nightly story time.
When it came time for him to read to his dear wife of 50 years, the little one with her mother would quietly steal away up the stairs to allow them these tender moments together.
He would pause often in reading as he struggled for composure. Occasionally he’d look up from the tear-sprinkled pages and gaze at his dearest treasure while brushing his cheeks with the back of his hand, having forgotten his handkerchief again.
There’s a tv above the gas fireplace but he’d rather read to her.
There’s a comfortable recliner that rocks nearby but he would instead pull up a chair and sit very close.
There was nothing better he knew she loved – or him either, for that matter – as her days on earth grew short than for him to read to her from their favorite love story, a story that he’d read to her a half-century before.
“Just one more chapter?” she’d whisper.
