January 6, 2025
Greetings from the narrator,
We were sitting in front of the fire in the little cove of our house that was made to fulfill the purpose of the word ‘cozy’. Outside the world had turned to frost, the temperature so hostile it no longer would register a number on the thermometer. This contrast made the fire feel more primal and essential.
The time for bed was pressing on the day, the sun had vanished unceremoniously below the flannel horizon, and now darkness partnered with the cold to make the pile of blankets on beds irresistible. Unless you are Finley and Ila. These two, who have not yet lit three or five candles on their birthday cakes, respectively, still felt the tug of the list of things not quite done.
I had been given the privilege of reading this last book, or what would likely be one of two or three last books. It is a responsibility I cherish and take seriously. Or at least as seriously as someone of my ilk can muster.
We chose The Big Red Barn, from the enormous selection of books, most tattered and bent from use, and not always as intended. The pages turn slowly, a lesson I learned from hours of study. I read the words and point to the interesting subjects in the drawings. Here is a baby cow, a rooster, a pig. The pig always makes me laugh, which makes Finley laugh.
Ila says: “Anda, what is your favorite animal on this page?”
“I like the butterfly,” I say, which is an easy pick, since it flutters on nearly every page.
Ila indicates she loves the small haystack, which is more scenery than a background character in the book, and this delights me for some reason.
Finley, still exploring his native language, keeps his comments to a few words. “Is getting dark,” he says, pointing at the dusk surrounding the big red barn. I agree, which seems appropriate. He smiles with appreciation. Sometimes he opens a book and makes sounds like he is reading, which teleports me to his college dorm room, upholstered with books and blankets and papers. But he is here now.
We are surrounded on the floor by toys and books and pillows and a stray afghan, the ordinary explosion of things that occur when Ila and Finley arrive. It makes me smile to think that there was a time before their mother was born that I cared about fingerprints on the windows, and now I can’t imagine life without the smudges.
The book progresses a page at a time, but that is misleading. There are questions, sometimes we must flip back to other pages, and then there are intermissions of tickling and bouncing on the sofa that is otherwise used primarily for napping.
Ila could read this book to me, if she wanted, and has in previous sessions. Occasionally when I am reading a book and skip over a word, she will bring it to my attention. This correction is non-negotiable, I must go back and read the sentence correctly, in context, and when applicable, in the character’s voice.
Finley is kind and patient and fun. He smiles more than he does not, which might be my favorite thing about him. It has inspired me to try, which I’ll tell you about later. Finley pays attention to the book as if his life depends on it. If there were a car or a truck in a book we are reading, he will tell me. I think he secretly hopes for one in every tome.
I’ll admit there are times when reading a book to them is part of a strategy aimed at calming the effervescent energy that always sparks from the two of them, and perhaps this is one of those. But every other book that is to them read is part of what it’s part of, and I’ve learned not to get too attached to the progress of the pages, or beginnings or ends. Life happens while reading, and that includes snacks and hide and seek and just running around.
I turn the pages and share the progress of the animals and their red barn, seasoning with appropriate theatrics. “Where is the mouse?” Finley asks, although we all know it’s on the next page, a product of the book’s popularity and the boy’s attentiveness. Still when I turn the page we all respond as if we’ve discovered the sun. “There he is!” we exclaim.
If there was ever a time when these two didn’t exist, when this nest of toys and pillows didn’t form, when the pages weren’t turned as if for the first time, I cannot recall. I glance at the two of them, Ila and Fin, and realize they have always been present in me, holding this magic moment for us to live in.
I think for a moment about my grandfather, and wonder if his grandfather ever read to him, two hundred years ago. The thought makes me see what a miraculous and important place I occupy.
Ila is often adorned with unicorns, a favorite of both of ours. She is incessantly interested, always wondering what’s next. She is bright and friendly and now has mastered the language to express the brilliance in her mind. She tells me about her friends, about other books, asks about tomorrow. She says “Anda, why do you have all these toys?” It’s a fascinating question, because she really wants to know. Do I play with them, or, are there other kids coming over? “We have them for you,” I say. She smiles, satisfied and flattered.
In between the words these two say, I hear other things. I hear them say what brings them joy, or what they are curious about, or what they dreamed. They ask questions about the days and years ahead, wonder what it’s like to be a grown up, or choose where to live, or drive a car or get lost for the first time when Mom is not there. How will I know if I’m in love? They ask why people are the way they are sometimes. What should I be? What is the use of pain? What is the purpose of suffering? Why are we?
The book flips forward into the story of the animal’s day and the slow progression to the big red barn, until it is dark and only the mice are left to play, and the moon shines in the empty sky and its cousin in the bucket of water. As I reach the last page, I feel a twinge of sadness. I’m still honored when they ask me to read them a book, and when that comes to a close, even though temporary, I feel a little adrift.
Ila and Finley ask about the children not in the book, about the little pig, the forecast of all the other things they will ask. “When I grow up…” forms the start of countless inquiries, still in the wings of this little theater. Among them, I suspect, will be some version of, “When I grow up will you still read books to me?”
The answer is simple, and in that simplicity, holy. I will read books to you, Ila and Finley, and all the rest that wait, forever and forever and for as long as books are, as long as words are and as long as we are. And, if I’m allowed, maybe longer.
Hope this finds you where you belong,
David
Copyright © 2025 David Smith
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