A, age 2, handed me an imaginary handful of food. "What's this?" I asked.
"Mush."
I didn't have to ask why mush was in her frame of reference, but I did anyway. "Like 'a comb, and a brush, and a bowl full of mush?'"
"Yes." Vigorous nod. Big grin.
When A reads Goodnight Moon, she doesn't just remember that she's read a soothing, atmospheric book about bedtime. She remembers the moon and the mouse and the mush. When she and S, age 5, read Maisy Goes to the Fair, they don't just observe that Maisy and her friends are having a fun day; they choose (and sometimes argue over) which seats they personally want on the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round.
Details stay with us. There are words in my vocabulary that I clearly remember learning because I first encountered them in books as a kid. There are icons on Livejournal that say, "Sheep are in."
It's enough to make me want every line I write to be good, and I'm thankful for that.
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