At the end of a day–good, bad or somewhere in between—I drink from a spring I know is far from eternal.
My youngest and I read. Usually, one of us aloud to the other.
Oh, and yes, we fight over which book to choose. We take turns now, a twist that has come into the picture since he was 10 and really began developing his own interests.
And now that my bookworm is 11, a tiny fear grows in the recesses of my mind. His older brother read with me until about age 12. It tapered off, starting at age 11 or so, until our nighttime ritual faded away. I didn’t push the issue; I would just ask each night if he wanted to read with me. Eventually, in gentle fashion, the answer became “no” 100 percent of the time.
The same will happen with my youngest, I’m sure. I’m trying to treasure this last year or so together.
When the recent horrors in France occurred, we read. After yesterday’s latest U.S. mass shooting, we read.
On days he comes home jubilant from school, we read. On days I score a homerun in some way, shape or form, we read.
We also talk. Sometimes not. Snuggle with the dog.
It is a constant, even though a constant that happens less often than it used to occur.
He likes to know I am there, solid, sharing his love of the written word on a page. We read with accents, crazy expression, emotion. We escape from our day, any pressures, the rest of the world.
It is a nightly touchpoint for us. Even the dog knows it’s time to hunker down when the book is opened. It is a blessing I am loathe to let go.
When this touchpoint goes, so does a bit of his childhood.
But it’s not gone yet. And so I hold on, soaking in every precious second.