At first, the few pages were a short story, and then, day by day, the story became longer and longer, and by the time the baby stopped his morning naps, I had a book. What to do with it? I found an envelope, placed the manuscript in it, looked at the front pages of a book on the shelf for the publisher’s info, wrote his name and address on the envelope, and took it the post office.
Though close in age we were so different. They could sit for hours throwing dice and moving small markers around a board. I couldn’t see the point of it. There was no skill to throwing dice. So why the shouts of glee or the cries of despair?
When the weather forced us indoors their knitting projects came out. Their creations were admired by their mother and mine while I read.
“Such a bookworm you are” someone would say.
“Why don’t you do something useful like your cousins?” my mother would ask.
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