The Reading lady. That’s what we called her. She had grey hair lightly twisted out of her face. A kind face. A face with smile lines, but also little lines around her eyebrows that said she’d had many thoughtful thoughts and many frowning moments. She had blue eyes. A cheerful blue that promised azure skies and adventure on the horizon.
She wore a big cardigan with very deep pockets. She had dairy free lollies, or gluten free snacks that tasted like food and not cardboard. She had two different kinds of lollypops in the top pocket. She catered to every child. Not just the wall flowers, but the wildflowers too. She grinned at the children keen to burst free like dandelion seeds on the wind. She called the popular kid down for a chat. She gently scooped the quiet kid in her arms.
“Come for a book, Possum.” She’d say, or, “I heard you like books about sharks! I have one just for you.”
She’d call you cozy names like Chicken or Duck or Twinkle Toes. But she also knew your name. Because it was tucked into her heart. She’d say, “I think you need a story about the moon,” or, “come Sweet Boy, tell me your heart’s worry.”
She knew us all. She knew our siblings but never got us mixed up. If she ever called us another name she would say, “oh, I’m so sorry Dove. I know your name is Jamie. You and Sophie both shine so brightly. But of course, you are different and wonderful as you.”
She would never demand a hug or force an interaction. Shy kids would slowly inch closer to her the way the tide slowly swallows the sand. A hand by her leg. An elbow on the table by her hand. A gentle smile. A gentle love. She gazed at you with a mild scrutiny, as though what you told her was always something to ponder or acknowledge.
She was tender motherhood. Squishy and warm and wonderful. Nothing was too scary or too naughty to ask about. She looked at you with the silent promise that nothing we said to her was too much. Was too silly. Too anything.
No child was too much for the Reading Lady. Afterall, she would say, “I’m sure there’s a book on that! Next time I see you ducklings I will bring one that will help us!”
And she always, always did.
I wouldn’t be too much for her. I wouldn’t have been too angry or too quiet or too far down the line of children not to notice. We were all stars of equal brightness, but each uniquely beautiful in her night sky.
She could’ve held me in her lap and sung me songs of resilience wrapped up in sunshine. She could have looked at me and told me five things she knew about me. Positive, wonderful things. Things that popped in my mouth like popping candy and tingled my soul.
Not the same stale bread attributes copied and posted on every report card my entire life. My name wouldn’t be hastily scribbled over a sibling’s. She would accept do-overs. She would’ve picked up my learning difficulties and not berated or sent me to the back of the line.
She would press her face cheek to cheek with mine and say. “Lets read this together, you and I. Words are steppingstones to whole new worlds and adventures. I will help you jump the steps.”
The Reading Lady would’ve loved my soul before my report card. The Reading Lady would have known my name and celebrated my wins.
The Reading Lady would’ve known me. 0
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