I can put anything in front of her. A whirring mixer. Splattering dough. The most tempting of cookies — made with a French butter that could lure the strongest of wills. Even steaming loaves of bread. But she doesn’t look up. So engrossed in her book. Dazzled by the words on the page. And I know, but for the dress and the hair, she is me.
I don’t remember not loving it, reading. It started with the Golden Books. Books I still have sitting beside me. And so rightly named, Golden, for they were treasures indeed. I suppose it was my mother who taught me, not to break the spine. To cradle them with care. “Use two hands,” she would say. “Why?” I asked. “You’ll need the support when you crawl inside.”
So that’s the way I read. Immersed. Just like she taught me. And that’s the way I love. Deep. Just as she loved me.
I boxed up some of the Christmas cookies that I made yesterday and gave them to the neighbor kids. I held them out with both hands. Their gasps of delight went deep. I can feel my mother smiling.
