My parents loved them
or at least wanted us to read them when we were kids.
They knew it make us smarter
or more well-rounded or use our brains or...
Or it doesn't matter.
I don't know why but...
But I had a lot of resistance to it,
like it wouldn't be interesting enough.
As if there was something else that was more interesting.
All that changed the summer of 4th grade in Cape Cod.
Lots of time to do nothing so...
So why not something?
I picked up the battered cover of,
Dear God, it's me Margaret.
You know one of those coming of age novels Judy Blum does so well.
I got it.
I felt the character,
I felt what it was to be a girl
that was to be a girl no more.
No one can really you hold your hand at that time.
I could when I read.
I could go anywhere in my books.
And I did.
I am curled up my twin bed,
devouring each page.
The curtains swaying in the warm salty breeze,
brushing my arms.
Coming through the window,
I am me but I am Margaret.
I want to stay in my little world.
being in this new world of rich characters and emotions,
being on someone else's journey.
It's my thoughts,
those are my tears,
I am here in it.
Feeling and it's so safe.
I love the safety of it.
Outside my simple room,
feelings can get me in trouble.
Like getting angry with Ken and Sunday School
who was so ticked off that as soon as I turned my back to him,
he punched me!
In the center of my back.
Who does that?
No, I think