My darling and I have made a wonderful habit of reading aloud each night. We just finished our very first book. Every evening I sat on the couch in the silent Alaskan nights next to our woodstove and read "Where The Red Fern Grows". My mother read this book to me many times as a child. It holds the bittersweet memories of Illinois nights. I loved the evenings on our front porch in my barefeet listening to my mothers voice atune to the crickets and frogs in the background. I can't help but take pride in the fact that I mimick the childhood memories of my mother's actions. It's a beautiful thought. And when I ended the story so beautifully written I, like my mother, began to cry. My darling, being the wonderful man he is, comforted me. And I smiled and laughed at my sensative nature the same way my mother did. It was a wonderful moment. A feeling of maturity and my entire childhood all wrapped into one. A simple reminder of how every part of this world in it's own little way connects to the next.
