“You go pick out all the books you want, and Grandma will be there in just a minute to read to you.”

I remember how my feet stuck out in front of me, since my legs were too short for my knees to even bend at the end of the cushion. I was just a little peanut.

I remember the sound of her reading to me, one story after another, one afternoon after another.

The Pokey Little Puppy. It Snowed Last Night. The Bobbsey Twins. Heidi. 

Grandma’s books at Grandma’s house.

“Always take good care of Grandma’s books, honey.”

We read, and we read, and we read.

I loved the smell of her books, the yellow pages, the sound of her voice.

When I was grown, I offered her one of the books I was reading, sure she would love it.

She said, “Well, I have something to tell you, honey. I don’t really like reading at all.”

“What?! Grams, you read to me all the time! And you didn’t even like books?”

“No, I’ve never liked to read. But I wanted you to.”

And so I did.

And so I do.

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