Isaiah is sitting on the floor surrounded by books. He opens one with a crinkle of its pages and says, “Shoo-chi-joo-sho-nay-nay-da.” He slaps it shut. “De end.” He picks up another, mutters out his own version of its narrative, and flips it closed. “De end.”
This goes on for some time. “Joo-sho-nay-di-shoo-chi.” Slap. “De end.” Crinkle crinkle. “Jo-jee-shay-nay-shoo-di-do.” Slap. “De end.”
Isaiah loves books. He loves to read them, loves it when people read them to him, loves to hit his brother Isaac upside the head with them. The boy hearts books. I hope he never stops loving them, even as the world around him transitions into a post-modern funk of hyper-links and text messages and overstimulating audio-visual mind sludge. Then one day he can visit me wherever he and his brothers have finally put me out to pasture, and maybe read to me there.
He’ll probably be more eloquent by then, though a darn sight less cute.