A Reading Family

A poem.

A Reading Family

Not five months old, our daughter looks

with unexpected purpose at the grown-up books

with which she shares our laps,

rejecting dolls and plastic keys and naps

we offer to remind her of her age:

she puzzles over any printed page,

until her brightening eyes

begin, we almost think, to realize

these straight lines, points, and arcs

make up an alphabet and punctuation marks –

until we half-recall a time

this business seemed half miracle, half mime,

when we, too, strained at mastery of

our closest rivals for our loved ones' love.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.