(This is dedicated to Ramie Harris, a classmate of mine, that, though I didn't know her personally, has impacted my life, and to her family. She died in a plane crash on Saturday, November 26th, 2011. May this be an encouragement to those who did know her, as well as to anyone who has ever lost a loved one.)
He just stood there, staring, browsing the spines of old, dusty books on the shelf. Some were brightly colored; others, dull and brown. There was no noise except the occasional cough in the distance of the vast public library. Finally, his hand lifted ever so slowly to the spine of one of those dull, brown books. The title on the spine read The Magic Sword in small simple gold letters. He pulled it down off the shelf and, blowing the dust off the cover, saw the intricate gold font spelling the title a second time. Slowly, a smile spread across the boy's face. He clutched the large book to his chest and walked out of the aisle.
The boy wandered the library, searching for his mother. He'd forgotten where she'd told him she would be. He walked through the rest of the science fiction/fantasy section, then moved on to the fiction. Just when he was about to lose hope, he found her standing in an aisle flipping through the pages of a magazine. It took a moment for her to notice him there. When she did, she jumped, startled.
"There you are!" she squeaked. Composing herself she asked, "Did you find one you want to read?"
The boy just nodded, and held the book out for his mother to see. When she looked back at him, his smile widened for a moment before disappearing completely. His mother's face was full of disappointment. She gave an exasperated sigh, then returned her magazine to the shelf.
"I guess you can read that one this time." she said. "Next time, though, I want you to pick out a book that will teach you something real. You read a lot of that fantasy junk, but it's not teaching you anything."
The boy hung his head in shame. He didn't want to disappoint his mother, but this is what he liked to read. Silently, he promised himself he would show his mother the value of what he read. They walked to the check-out counter and the young librarian stamped the card with the due date shooting a smile at the boy. He smiled back, happy that someone was glad he was reading the book.
Back in the car, the boy opened the book to the first page, and began to read. His mother looked at him, gave another sigh like the one she'd given inside and started the car. The boy spent the rest of the summer afternoon on his bed reading that book. His mother tried to get him to play outside, but he just shook his head and stuck his nose back in the book. After a few attempts, she gave up and left him alone.
The boy finished that book quickly. Within a week, he was back at the library looking for a new book. Grudgingly, he followed his mother's instructions and looked for a book in the biography section. None of the names on the spines of the books was familiar. Then, suddenly, one book caught his eye. It was an old, dusty, brown book with gold letters spelling out the title on the side. His heart jumped into his throat. Could it be? When he read the title, he smiled. This biography was of the author who had written The Magic Sword. He quickly pulled it off the shelf and ran to find his mother. When she saw it was a biography, she agreed to let him take it home. He smiled broadly at the librarian as she stamped his book.
The boy read this book just as fast as the first. His mother was impressed, but worried at the same time. The boy had begun to stay inside and read all the time. He never did anything outside. All he wanted to do was read. No matter how much she pleaded with him to go outside, he just shook his head and went back to reading.
Then, one day, the boy's father left on a business trip. On the way back, his plane crashed, killing him and many others that had been on the plane with him. Both the boy and his mother were devastated. Even during this time, the boy just wanted to be in his room reading. His mother didn't care. She just attributed it to grief. After the funeral and all the family members had left, the boy and his mother began to adjust to life with just each other. The boy insisted they go back to the library many times. Finally, she relented. They went back to the library and the boy checked out another biography.
As the weeks went by, the boy began to laugh more and become more like he was before his father died. His mother wondered about this. The grief for her was still too near to make jokes or laugh, but her son seemed to be fine. They continued to take regular trips to the library and the boy would sometimes check out a biography and other times take a fantasy novel. Regardless, the boy kept reading constantly, refusing to go outside.
One day, a couple of months after the father's death, when they had just returned from the library, the grief sprung up on the boy's mother unawares and she collapsed on the living room couch in uncontrollable sobs. The boy, worried about his mother, ran up to his room and, when he returned, set the same dusty, brown book with the title in golden letters he'd had months ago on her lap. She looked at him angry and confused. What use was this book going to be? It was the biography of some random author! She pushed the book off her lap, but the boy just picked it up, and set it back on her lap. When she tried to push it off again, he held it there. Then, he opened the book to a page near the beginning and pointed at a line. She forced herself to wipe off her tears and look at the page. When it finally came into focus, she realized why her son had pointed this out to her.
"Don't cry for those who have died." the line her son was pointing out to her said. "Instead, remember them with joy, and delight in the activities that they knew you enjoyed."
Suddenly, it all made sense to the boy's mother. She remembered the smiles her husband had given their son when he walked in the door holding the book out. She remembered the times when her son was too young to read for himself and her husband had read to him. She realized that her son was still grieving over the loss of his father, just like her, but he was doing it in a way that showed how much he loved his father: he was reading. His father had taught him to love books, and the boy had kept reading to remember his father.
She reached down and gently closed the cover. Then, she stretched out her arms and pulled her son into a long and strong hug. The boy hugged her back, and tears flowed freely down each of their cheeks. After a few minutes of this, she pushed the boy back and wiped the tears off his cheeks and her own.
"Thank you." she said lovingly. Then, opening the book to the beginning, she began to read it out loud to her son, remembering the way her husband used to read to him. As she read, slowly, very slowly, a smile began to stretch across her face.
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