In which I write something sappy.

I’ve begun to realize that my opening statements on this blog rarely match the main content. I can only explain this by saying I don’t proofread.

I’m going to go a bit more realistic tonight. I usually write very fantastical stories, full of magic. Part of this project is to come out of my comfort zone, so lets do just that.

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I can’t remember if Mom or Dad ever read any normal bedtime stories to us. I know they probably did, but to my sister and me, there will only be one bedtime book.

Every night before bed, Dad would get a small book of poetry off the shelf. It was battered and tattered at the edges, with the pages yellowed and brittle. Green canvas covered the cardboard covers, making it rough to the touch. There was no cover slip, and the writing on the spine had faded to the palest hint of gold. To my mind as a child, it had no title and needed none. It simply called the Treasure.

Our father would carefully thumb through the pages, skimming past literary greats. With a voice soft and sad, he would read the words of Walt Whitman, lamenting the death of his Captain. He would bring to lyrical life Edward Lear’s Owl and the Pussycat, taking a set of twins in the boat with those sweet lovers. On darker nights, he would bring fear, creeping with Raven as it screamed “Nevermore” to an insane man. We could not and would not tolerate Goosebumps, but Edgar Allen Poe was allowed to scare us, warm and snug in our beds.

The poem I remember as a true bedtime poem though, is one my mom would read to us as well. By Lord Tennyson, Sweet and Low is slow and gentle. When read aloud, the speaker immediately falls into the perfect cadence, a swaying way of speaking, reminiscant of waves. I remember Mom reading it to us one night, when Dad was working the night shift at Emergency One. We were sitting in the living room, just before bedtime. Amber pulled the book off the shelf and begged Mom to read something out of it. By the light of the lamp on the end table, she read the short poem, of a woman telling her children their father will be home soon.

It’s been many years since we moved past that time in our lives. Somehow, in the moves and all the shuffling that occured over the years, I managed to end up with that little green book. The little bit of gold scrollwork is completely gone from the cover but for the moment, it’s mine. I say it that way because eventually, it won’t be. I made a promise to my sister; when she has children, I will gladly give her the book, so the tradition can continue.

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I can never thank my parents enough for introducing us to literature at such an early age.

I think the piece is a bit weak tonight but it gives a bit of insight into who I am and why. If it were not for that little green book, I would be very different. I really believe that.

Sleep well, lovelies.