The pictures from the book were on a screen behind him.
He trusted the teacher’s aide to flip the image as he flipped the page.
Kids always wanted to touch the letters after he finished reading to them.
He read to classrooms where he doubted the kids had books at home at all.
Today a kid asked him if he could feel the fur on the fox in the story, as though he possessed some sort of magical tactile sense.
He stopped and a chill crawled up him. He felt it like smoke, enveloping a magician’s assistant.
He could enunciate.
Project.
Add pauses and whispers to heighten tension and drama.
He could smell which kids had peanut butter for lunch and which kids came to school in unwashed clothes.
He could voice the hawk with authority and the hummingbird with urgency and the sheep with kindness and the fox with stealth and cunning.
He had run his fingers over thousands of books from Carle to Seuss, Cleary to White, brushing the Braille cells expertly, making dots into sounds and characters he couldn’t see into friends.
But he hadn’t stopped to feel the fur, until just now.
“I haven’t tried,” he told the inquisitive kid, extending his hand between the child and the book.
Then he said words his mother had taught him not to say until he had exhausted every other possibility.
“Help me.”
***
I’d love to hear your thoughts.
Beautifully tender. I read slowly to hear and feel all the textures you bring to the readers’ senses. I truly feel soothed by this story. Thank you.
This brings me to tears. You are a beautiful soul and a fantastic teacher. Thank you again sir. This is an amazing story.