A Prequel to a Once Upon a Time

Tiny feet pace the floor, back and forth, back and forth. Unruly curls bob with a step closer to the shelf before retreating. The slightly damp, itsy-bitsy coils give off the faint smell of peaches and soap.

Choice can be hard for any book lover, but for a three-year-old nearly impossible. For this tiny tot more so than most. Her books line the wall on ledges like famed art, rest on a three-story shelf and nestle in four soon-to-be five cloth bins. Her collection is not unlike mine, the aunt famed for having to stack her books like a literary Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Will she go with a classic fairy tale, the comedy of animals exercising before bed, a book with a button not to be touched or a grandmother who says hush? She emits a slight huff, reminding me of a dragon and paper-clad princess. I can imagine a puff of smoke curling into the air. But this cave’s treasures are multifaceted, and preciously bound with paper, not gold. How is this reading dragon to select its favourite word-worn jewel?

I sit crossed-legged, in a pose from a Hindu discipline I do not practise but lends itself to the meditative effect spiralling within me. The only thing that can be done is to wait patiently. But for these moments, I would wait forever. Wishing I could encapsulate them in a snow globe that could hold on to a time that speeds by as quickly as the snow settles on frozen figurines.

A tentative finger touches a golden spine before drawing back in uncertainty. It is not always about the outward appearance of the book. More often than not it is about the thickness; a story that takes its time winding among the illustrated pages. A tale with enough words to form the perfect lyrical lullaby.

Green eyes flash to mine and without saying a word I nod, an unspoken indication there is time for more than one. As slippery as time is, it stretches for moments like this. A contented sigh rings throughout the room. Was it from her, me or the books I cannot tell. The first book is chosen. More than one appearing to take the edge off of indecision.

The vibration of the race back can be felt by floorboards over a hundred years old. Wood stained with time, tears and the footprints of what I hope has been many families before hers. Many children whose bedtime tales may have also rang out in this room. I can almost feel their stories layered like the paint on the walls.

The star-covered quilt does not receive her tiny body for this storytime. I do. Her footie pyjama-clad cuteness plopping onto my lap, wriggling until she is positioned just right. One lap, one choice, unlike another indecisive ringlet heroine we’ve read who sent a letter via post apologizing to a baby bear. These errant real-life curls, now attempt to tickle my nose.

“I will hold the book.” Innocence echoes within the command. A need to savour the moment just as much as I do.

We begin the journey with something other than the quintessential ‘once upon a time’. The pages unfolding with a pace set by the tiny fingers gripping their edges. Plenty of queries are made ranging from the illustrated flowers to the audacity of a particular fox. All the while we continue to meander down a storied yellow brick road.

‘The end’ comes quicker than expected, even with all the work put in to savour the story. But our unspoken agreement means it is not over. The covers do not beckon to be snuggled beneath just yet.

The military precision is taken up once more, the march of a determined reader.

These are the bedtime stories I will remember and cherish. The exact books may slip from my memory, but never the feel of my arms around her, the sound of her soft cadence reading along or asking questions. And even though I may no longer get to sit with her, the story of our mutual love and admiration for books lives on in the pages we continue to read separately, thousands of miles now laying between us.