Mother – reading time
The memories with my mother I cherish is when she read for me in bed. She was generous about purchasing the quality collection of picture books. She was great at dramatic reading. Even if I had read the books many times already, I’d still ask her to read them repeatedly. My demand for her reading was particularly strong when I had anxiety and was unable to sleep. She’d sit by my futon, and her voice was soft as the story began, then deepened as it reached the twist of the plot. By the story came to conclude, I am content and soothed, and fell asleep.
It was culturally uncommon to hug or kiss among family members, so reading together felt like the most intimate act between my mother and me. As I grew older, she’d buy me novels like Mary Poppins, Pipi’s Long Stockings, and The Secret Garden, because they were her favorite when she was my age. I read alone by then, but through the books, we achieved an ideal mother and daughter relationship. The books were where we met and spent time together and shared the greatest joy for both of us.
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