Home from the library,
a new book in my hands.
I remember its shape
exactly.
Small, thick, square,
with a solid orange library binding
that revealed nothing of its contents.
Nonetheless, I knew it contained wonders,
and I sat on the couch, holding it close,
waiting for Mommy to come read to me.
My mother, however, was in the kitchen,
busy with inconsequential things …
like putting away groceries
and starting the next meal.
“Will you come now?” I called.
“Will you come?”
“Soon,” she said.
“Soon.”
But soon didn’t happen.
So, at last, despairing,
I opened the blank orange cover
and examined the first page,
expecting nothing,
hoping for nothing,
knowing nothing waited for me there
without my mother
at my side.
Amazement zinged through my bones …
I could read!
I could read!
I could read!
And I read from one orange cover
to the other.
My life had begun.
Did I truly learn to read
in such an unexpected rush?
It’s possible, I suppose.
More likely,
I was already in school,
learning in the usual deliberate way,
but I had never noticed
that deciphering the plodding stories
about Dick and Jane
and Sally and Spot
and Puff and Tim
was the same as
reading.
Photo by Johnny McClung on Unsplash
