2-14-12

I do a lot of reading aloud to myself. I sit in my room, with my voice low and rhythmic, talking to myself through books. I'll read fiction, mostly, but if there are textbook sections to read for school, I don't mind reading those aloud as well. Many times I have wondered why I enjoy it so much. It slows me down, makes the sentences seem very special- like enjoying an ice cream cone v e r y s l o w l y. In the calmness, I feel my childhood again.

I remember an old woman, and I'm guilty not to recall her name, that read to us at my elementary school. She had very round, small eyes, and full droopy cheeks. Her skin was old and spotted, but with a rosy, dewy glow. Maybe once or twice a year, she would read stories to us. I remember being completely taken my the rhythm and cadence, the candid tone, the sanctity of her words. All of us would lean into her (even the 6th graders, who pretended not to care) trying to get closer to her warmth.

Now that I am older, I realize how she was just an old woman, who had a grand lifetime, who was in her winter years. Many years ago, she was in elementary school, and I bet she was read to also. Now I wonder what her life was like, and where she lived. I wonder if she has passed away (probably so). Now I think that those readings were just as special to her as they were to us, her captive audience. When I am approaching my last ten or so years, I hope to be reading to children like that too, and I understand why she may have enjoyed it.

Honestly, I can't remember any of the characters or adventures she read about, but I can still touch and feel the hush and calm of her reading when I read to myself now.