Old Book

Now I must admit that at the age of six, I did not light up like a Christmas tree at the prospect of reading, but the junk-filled attic entranced me.

The thick pile of dust covering and ancient tome seemed like a mountain, complete with dust bunnies in the shape of Yetis.  I had the inexplicable urge to wipe the pile off with my whole arm, but I was afraid that the dust Yetis might attack. So instead, I grabbed the edge of the old book and tilted it, sending the dust mountain scattering into the air and all over the old wooden floor.

With wonder and awe I held the book in front of me.  It was an old leather bound book, the gold inlay of the title had flecked off some time during the past few years and now lay buried like a needle in a haystack underneath the mountain of dust. 

Dust Yetis now roamed the floor, so I took a step back to keep them from nibbling at my toes. 

I ran over to a small table in the corner with glee and placed the book on its surface, only to leave it and run to another box in which I had found an old bottle of leather oil and a rag only a few minutes before.  With the bottle and rag in hand, I dashed back to the book and squirted some oil onto the old, dirty cover and gently rubbed it in with the rag. 

After a few minutes of rubbing the oil into the leather, I leaned back to appreciate my work.  The sunlight slanting in through the grimy window fell upon the creases and folds of the old book, making it look like a smiley face was staring back at me.  I tilted my head to the right a little bit and the smiley face winked at me.  It felt like my grin was splitting my face in two from ear to ear.  My smile still plastered to my face I picked up the book and ran out of the attic and down the rickety old stairs, to the first floor of my house.  I clutched the book to my chest and yelled: “Papa!  Papa!”

I slowed down to a fast walk as my father poked his slightly graying hair around the corner that lead to the living room.  I smiled and held out the book and jumped onto the couch next to him.  He took the book from me and slowly thumbed through the pages.  With a smile he asked: “Would you like me to read this to you?”  I nodded enthusiastically.
With one big arm he picked me up and put me in his lap and began to read.  It was a tale of adventure and mystery, love and hate, magic and epic battles.  It was a tale that I would never forget.

****

And I remember this all as my son runs down the same rickety old stairs that I did so many years ago, clutching the same old book to his chest and yelling, “Papa!  Papa!”

He stops in front of the couch and holds out the book to me.  I take it and ask him the same question my father asked me: “Would you like me to read it to you?”

He nods with all of the enthusiasm I had.  I pick him up and put him in my lap and begin to read it to him.  But I do not read the words from the pages.  I read them from my heart. It is a tale that I will never forget.