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Read me a story

I learned years ago to actively practice bringing my thoughts to the present moment, particularly when my mind goes to some wicked place and even sometimes when it goes to a beautiful memory.  There is no predictability in grieving. This practice of being in the present moment has been life-saving for me, literally. But sometimes my heart yearns for the lost moments.

Do you ever have one of those days when you need the past?  

A little sliver of light is shining on the memory of reading stories to my son. I can see us there, settled in among the pillows and stuffed animals, my head laying next to his on the pillow, book in hand. Then, I would read with active voice the stories so they jump from the page and become real.  What a wonderful beautiful memory, vivid with sound and color. I hear his laughs and questions and our discussions on the meaning of the stories.  Oh, how I want to bring it all back to being real, being here and now. 

An evening ritual for years, we had lots of books, some of which were our favorites.  Some nights it was three short stories, some nights it would be a chapter or two of some fiction or non-fiction book.  Oh how I loved this time together. Thankfully, I hold that little place in my heart as a wonderful and happy memory. Reading together was our time as mother and son.  So every night for years, we read together... I read, he listened.  After an hour or so, I'd close the book and say ok, that's it for tonight and he would say, No, No, just one more story.... PLEASE. 

I admit, I relinquished to that request more than not. 

This week has brought forefront in my mind the memories of reading together those many, many nights.  I needed to read to someone.  I needed someone to listen...so I did all I could do and read to myself, first one of the books, and then another.... 

Strega Nona, Owl Moon, Crunch the Crocodile,  Tom, When I was Young in the Mountains, Caps for Sale, The Polar Express, Curious George, Fish is Fish, The Ox Cart Man, the Relatives Came, Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge.... 

Finally, the ache began to subside. Who knew how these little books would help soothe a mother's heartache.


Comments

  1. I stopped working when I had Leslie so I could be with her until she started kindergarten. During these years we joined a book club and we would both race to the mailbox to check if we had a new book. I read "But No Elephants" to her so many times I lost count. She became an avid reader and when she passed away I found a personal narrative regarding her love of reading. In the last paragraph of her narrative, it read: When I close my eyes to imagine my own personal heaven, I see faces of loved ones that I miss so dearly, I smell the aroma of the world's finest fudge in the air, I hear the sound of my daughter's laughter, and in my hands I feel the cool, slick cover of "Where the Red Fern Grows." (A favorite book she read when she was ten years old.)
    Marian, thank you for sharing the stories of your dear son, Wyatt, and thank you for reminding me of the precious times I spent reading to my Leslie.

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