There was a time when I would read to Bradford. Read him children books. To engage him. To bring forth his imagination. We would sit together, on his small bed, leaning against pillows, a book opened, spread across both our laps. I’d ask him questions, explain passages, and laugh with him while looking at funny illustrations.
But now, Brad reads to me. Reads books for middle-schoolers. Engaging me. Bringing forth my imagination. We sit together at the kitchen table, each of us holding our own book. And, like I would when he was younger, I’d ask him questions, explain passages, and, instead of looking at illustrations, we’d each imagination the scene within our own thoughts.
Time flies…. Way. Too. Fast.