I think you’re most yourself when you’re reading.
An open book clutched in your tiny seven year old hands.
Curled in a chair or lying on the floor, your bright blue eyes move quickly across each page, occasionally stopping to absorb a picture.
Sometimes your little lips move, sounding out a difficult word.
Pages turn fast but as soon as one book is closed, another is opened.
Sometimes you read out loud, stumbling on a trick word
A little finger might poke a word on the page as if to put it in it’s place
Your brow might furrow, but you won’t ask for help,
determined to discover it yourself.
Books have evolved, from only pictures to only words,
but that doesn’t seem to be a problem for you.
Instead, your mind generates the picture for you,
each word a puzzle piece in the image.
Every week, a stack of “new” books comes home from library.
You rush to them as soon as the yellow school bus disappears,
around the corner by our house.
Usually not associated with quiet,
When we can’t hear you we know where to look,
Find a book and you won’t be far behind.