The school year was halfway over, not that I would have known. Time was abstract in first grade. We now could read, well, sort of. Phonics were taught back then, so I was able to sound out words without knowing their meanings. Reminds me of the first week in high school Spanish class when I learned how to say the consonants and vowels. No idea what I was saying. Anyway, once a week, we would gather in front of the black chalkboard and listen to a classmate read a book to us. It was very exciting and at times silly. The kind of silly when the reader could not stop nervous- laughing and we couldn’t stop laughing because he couldn’t stop. Anyway. It was my turn now.
I chose The Best Nest by P.D. Eastman. I remember reading it aloud in my room. I read plenty of times to my little sister. This was different. I wasn’t nervous. It seemed like a lot of fun up there by the board. Everyone had a good time. I just wanted it to be perfect. I wanted to express emotion and say the words clearly and loudly.
The day came. The afternoon arrived. I stood in front of my friends and joyously read about the birds. I was so happy when I got home and excitedly told my mom all about it. She didn’t get it. He didn’t get it. No one got it. I did though. I wanted to do this again, and I did. But. Not for several decades.