Count the Ways
I can’t sit down for a moment without my little granddaughter coming to me with a picture book in her hand. It never occurs to her that I might have better things to do, or that I might be tired, or thinking about something important. She just assumes I’m there to read to her, and that I’m as interested as she is in the dog who is bigger than a house, or the cat that wears boots and a plumed hat, or the elephant who learns he can fly. I am sitting there purely for her pleasure, and she takes my availability as her right, every time. I love that. And of course I read to her. I don’t care about the content of the book. I just love the feel of her little body nestled in beside me, the smell of her hair after a day’s play in the sun, the feel of her breath on my cheek, the look of concentration in her eye as she digests the fact that the elephant’s mother has to stay in the prison car because she tried to protect her baby. The look of the dimples on her fingers as she finally t...