I am sitting in a place that serves as a daycare for stories. Loud children come in, watched by the nannie, not always paying good attention. But we care for the stories who wait here. Spoiled rotten stories, selfish stories, good natured stories and ugly fat stories too. Stories wait here, loudly, looking at us behind the desk in face-out attention. They are waiting to go home. Characters in shoes, on rooftops, in second grade, all asleep until fingers pull them from between their alphabetical siblings and slightly tear their jackets. Rung up, into the bag and home. And then it's flick flick flick stop motion color or black and white, whichever the little mind chooses for the film. And then one day it is done and the spine cracks back, pages fall, book shuts but never as flat and solidly square as before the adventure began. There is a sigh of relief from the book easing back from the child's use, and from the child leaving that world finished for a time. Sometimes the sigh is tinged with longing. For books and children are always teasing each other.
