I taught myself to read at the age of four.
So, I cannot really recall my first book. Maybe if I telephoned my mother, she’d tell me yes, she has it written somewhere in my baby book, or she has a Polaroid of me sitting in the floor with it open on my lap; finger on the page, sounding out the words.
Or maybe she doesn’t remember either.
But I can imagine what that first book must have felt like. I get a hint of that same feeling with every new book I take down from the book store shelf or unwrap from the cardboard box the postman delivers.
Running my fingers over the flat cover and hearing the first creak of the spine as it opens both give me a thrill. The new book smell floats on the air and I lean close, breathing it up from the pages. I love to feel the weight of a book in my hand, to draw aside the textured end papers, like a curtain opening on a Broadway play.
Examining the typeface, the title page, and the illustrations, I smile in anticipation. This bundle of ink and pages, paper and print is my ticket on a long black train. As I read the very first words on the very first page, I am carried away by the clackety-clack rhythm and through the window I can see a whole new world.
This post is part of my 8 Random Things About Me response to tags from Lavender Chick and Shannon. Be sure and check back for Random Thing Topic #8 coming soon.
P.S. TAG, The Queen Bea, You're It! - Share 1 (or 8) random thing(s) about yourself, and turn it (each one) into a blog topic.
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