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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Survival / Healing / Renewal
- Published: 02/01/2018
Please read to me for a little bit.
Born 1951, M, from Wilmington NC, United StatesHe was not blind, but his eyes had stopped being good enough to read, in any light, with any kind of glasses, long ago. Books of all kinds stuffed his small apartment like most first time travelers stuff a suitcase. If you could kneel on an apartment to squeeze in one more book, then that is what his small place resembled- an overstuffed suitcase of life filled with books.
In neat stacks on the bottom shelves of the bookcases were the Science and History magazines that he loved. Both money and health had become hinderances to travel for him. But in his beloved books or magazines, he could (in just a moment) be as far away as the new Solar System discovered called “Trappist-1” with its seven planets, three of which were in the “Goldilocks Zone.”
With just a flip of a page he could go from as far away as possible to as far back as possible…in Time. With one of his lovely History Magazine articles he could flit between a cave in France where some long ago ancestor had carefully traced his hand to a jungle in Central America where the largest pyramid ever built lay hidden until… .
Then there were the letters and emails. His wife of forty seven years (until death do us part, forced both him and her to honor that contract) used to tease him about his need to print out his emails before he could read them. This late in his life, that thought made him smile- not grieve. He missed her teasing, her little smirk, and for a moment (just a few moments, I swear) he stopped reading to let the real meaning of "bitter sweet” flow off of the memories.
People loved getting his emails or letters, for he wrote both. He preferred to write letters and mail them the old fashioned way: with a stamp on a plain white envelope. But many of his friends and relatives preferred emails. So what if they only checked them rarely anymore. He still wrote them all- all the time. For writing is the beginning of reading- and he loved to read.
He read to himself. He read to both his daughters, until they could read to themselves. Even then they often asked him to read passages, paragraphs, or parts of stories, for he read with a strong voice. A voice that could echo the meanings of the words at the time and place they were written.
Decades later he read to his grandchildren. Book after book, after book. For when you are little books can have few words and many pictures but contain lots of stories. He read his grand children stories of fire trucks, snowmen, or even trips through Zoo’s. They would hang on his every word. He would make them giggle, laugh, or squeal with delight as he made Farm Animal Noises shaped into Human speech. It was only years later that they discovered that Sheep don’t really talk, pigs don’t sound like that, birds rarely whistle songs like the Battle Hymn of the Republic, or Seventy Four Trombones.
Now, nearly eighty years after he had read his first book (at age five) he couldn’t read to himself, or for himself anymore. Sometimes he would marvel at the Full Circle of Life, for here he was, just like his children and grand children before him, waiting for someone to come over to read to him. He remembered his Mother reading to him when he was a child, and his older sisters too. He remembered reading to his wife those long last few weeks before she left this life. He was reading a poem to her when she passed… and he often reread that last poem when he was fighting melancholy. It helped.
The door opened. A shaft of light (he could still see shades of light) found a straight line across his bed. A voice spoke softly:
“Dad, are you awake?”
Warm words. Kind words. Familiar words. He knew which one she was just by the tone, pitch, and kindness in that short sentence.
“Yes, Honey. Come in.”
She slipped into the chair next to his bed here at Hospice. Taking quick note of the few calories missing from his dinner. It is a good thing he couldn’t see well enough to watch the cloud of concern on her face, as the future etched some worry lines about its plans on her middle aged features. For him though, only smiles made it to her voice.
“Would you like me to read to you?”
“Oh, Yes, Please read to me for a little bit.”
She opened the book on the table to where she had left off yesterday. One hand held the book flat on his bed, her other hand gently rubbed circles with her thumb on the back of his hand. Soon they were both lost in the Story.
She would go home when he fell asleep. Or maybe she would go to her daughter’s house for nap time to hear her little grand daughter say:
“Nanny, could you please read to me, just for a little bit?”
And the cycle would continue.
Please read to me for a little bit.(Kevin Hughes)
He was not blind, but his eyes had stopped being good enough to read, in any light, with any kind of glasses, long ago. Books of all kinds stuffed his small apartment like most first time travelers stuff a suitcase. If you could kneel on an apartment to squeeze in one more book, then that is what his small place resembled- an overstuffed suitcase of life filled with books.
In neat stacks on the bottom shelves of the bookcases were the Science and History magazines that he loved. Both money and health had become hinderances to travel for him. But in his beloved books or magazines, he could (in just a moment) be as far away as the new Solar System discovered called “Trappist-1” with its seven planets, three of which were in the “Goldilocks Zone.”
With just a flip of a page he could go from as far away as possible to as far back as possible…in Time. With one of his lovely History Magazine articles he could flit between a cave in France where some long ago ancestor had carefully traced his hand to a jungle in Central America where the largest pyramid ever built lay hidden until… .
Then there were the letters and emails. His wife of forty seven years (until death do us part, forced both him and her to honor that contract) used to tease him about his need to print out his emails before he could read them. This late in his life, that thought made him smile- not grieve. He missed her teasing, her little smirk, and for a moment (just a few moments, I swear) he stopped reading to let the real meaning of "bitter sweet” flow off of the memories.
People loved getting his emails or letters, for he wrote both. He preferred to write letters and mail them the old fashioned way: with a stamp on a plain white envelope. But many of his friends and relatives preferred emails. So what if they only checked them rarely anymore. He still wrote them all- all the time. For writing is the beginning of reading- and he loved to read.
He read to himself. He read to both his daughters, until they could read to themselves. Even then they often asked him to read passages, paragraphs, or parts of stories, for he read with a strong voice. A voice that could echo the meanings of the words at the time and place they were written.
Decades later he read to his grandchildren. Book after book, after book. For when you are little books can have few words and many pictures but contain lots of stories. He read his grand children stories of fire trucks, snowmen, or even trips through Zoo’s. They would hang on his every word. He would make them giggle, laugh, or squeal with delight as he made Farm Animal Noises shaped into Human speech. It was only years later that they discovered that Sheep don’t really talk, pigs don’t sound like that, birds rarely whistle songs like the Battle Hymn of the Republic, or Seventy Four Trombones.
Now, nearly eighty years after he had read his first book (at age five) he couldn’t read to himself, or for himself anymore. Sometimes he would marvel at the Full Circle of Life, for here he was, just like his children and grand children before him, waiting for someone to come over to read to him. He remembered his Mother reading to him when he was a child, and his older sisters too. He remembered reading to his wife those long last few weeks before she left this life. He was reading a poem to her when she passed… and he often reread that last poem when he was fighting melancholy. It helped.
The door opened. A shaft of light (he could still see shades of light) found a straight line across his bed. A voice spoke softly:
“Dad, are you awake?”
Warm words. Kind words. Familiar words. He knew which one she was just by the tone, pitch, and kindness in that short sentence.
“Yes, Honey. Come in.”
She slipped into the chair next to his bed here at Hospice. Taking quick note of the few calories missing from his dinner. It is a good thing he couldn’t see well enough to watch the cloud of concern on her face, as the future etched some worry lines about its plans on her middle aged features. For him though, only smiles made it to her voice.
“Would you like me to read to you?”
“Oh, Yes, Please read to me for a little bit.”
She opened the book on the table to where she had left off yesterday. One hand held the book flat on his bed, her other hand gently rubbed circles with her thumb on the back of his hand. Soon they were both lost in the Story.
She would go home when he fell asleep. Or maybe she would go to her daughter’s house for nap time to hear her little grand daughter say:
“Nanny, could you please read to me, just for a little bit?”
And the cycle would continue.
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