Old Friends

Waiting in a noisy restaurant, we went to the bookshelf where they keep books for children. My daughter started jumping up and down because they had two of her favorites, The Cat In the Hat and You Are Special. I handed them to her and she hugged the books and looked at them, amazed that they exist somewhere other than her room.

These were tattered copies with stray crayon marks on the title pages, bent spines, and no dust jackets, but she greeted them like old, beloved friends with a smile much bigger than during our entire time at Disney World. They were a piece of familiar comfort in a loud place.

When our food came and I returned the books to the shelf, she didn’t protest. She knew her copies were at home, exactly where she left them, though probably under our sleeping calico.

But she talked about it later, how they had the books that she has, too. They like the books I like, and how maybe the next time we eat there, we can read them again.