I started reading to my children when they were tiny babies - small books, pages thick with colorful illustrations. Gradually the words grew longer and the pictures fewer. I remember so clearly the summer when they were 4 and 5, and we devoured the Magic Treehouse books - driving from library branch to library branch, the excited discovery of them on the shelves, a treasure hunt so that we could read them in order.
Today my daughter has become a voracious reader. She carries a book everywhere just in case... My son, not one for just words on the page, is still enamored with Graphic Novels. The visual imagery is what draws him in, although the words cause laughter and at times, intense scrutiny.
The evening routine of reading to my children every night has somehow fallen away...and I have missed it. Tonight, after a long absence, we picked up A Wrinkle in Time, continuing where we had left off. We stopped at 6 pages before the end -wanting to savor the finale together tomorrow after breakfast. The brilliance of this book is equal only to its melodious flow of words.
Perhaps someday, when I'm an ancient crone, and my eye sight is completely gone, my children will visit and read aloud to me...
“It seemed to travel with her, to sweep her aloft in the power of song, so that she was moving in glory among the stars, and for a moment she, too, felt that the words Darkness and Light had no meaning, and only this melody was real.” ― Madeleine L'Engle, A Wrinkle in Time
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