I like books.


I live in a small town and enjoy writing about the inhabitants. I spend most of my time perusing through used book stores looking for that one great book that I don't have; consequently, I have rooms filled with books. I am a book addict.

Friday, January 06, 2006

Precious moments

My seven-year-old grandson says, “Nana, you sure know a lot.”
I say, “I’m old.”
Grandson says, “Who taught you to make bread?”
I say, “My mother.”
Grandson, “Who taught you to find fossils.”
I say, “I research and I learned from my teachers in school.”
Grandson, “Who taught you to make fast paper airplanes?”
I say, “My brother.”
Finally the questions end, and he goes back to drawing bats in a cave. (A new fascination, the bats—from vampires to bats, both I like.) When he finished, he brought it over for me to look at. “Well,” I say, “I guess that is the best cave full of bats that I have ever seen.” Tempted to ask him who taught him, I waited. He, almost as tall as I, crawls onto my lap and does his best attempt to cuddle in my arms, and I try as hard as I can to hold him in spite of his size. He points to his birthmark and says let me see yours. We have the same one, a long brown mark under our right floating rib. I show him the mark and he traces my surgical scar and asks, “Did it hurt?” “No,” I say, “I was a sleep.” He looks at my hands, my eyes, and tells me he thinks his eyes are turning green, like mine. I look into his dark coffee—colored eyes and tell him that I hope they stay brown, that brown eyes are my favorite. He smiles.
Grandson, “I made the cave and bats like the ones you used to draw for me.”
I smile but truthfully have forgotten teaching him to draw bats, but must have. He gets back down in the floor and then whispers, “I like it when the baby takes a nap. I get you all to myself.”
I smile and whisper back, “Me too, I like watching you draw.”


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