Whenever in the woods with my aunt Joan (who has passed it on to my brother) there comes a time for a 5 minute painting. Small heavy paper is handed out. Paint brushes are dabbed with water. My dad has painted a likeness of man's best friend, Mogey. Elliott has painted elevators (yes, even in the woods). Dietrich made lines, tree colored. I'm not in the woods, and I do not have paints, but here goes:
I am drifting out of reading-aloud consciousness. The lines of words are blending together and I want nothing more than sleep, sweet sleep. Dietrich is propped on my right shoulder and his head sinks a bit into me. Elliott wiggles on my left not giving into the drowsiness of our sun-baked room surrounded by mounds of week-old, month-old snow. It is lopped over the porch like a blanket kicked aside on the bed. But the book is clever and it turns the words so that I cannot fake it. Stuart Little and his new friend Margalo with her sweet lyrics have made all of us want just one more chapter -- this is really the last one! Okay, but then Mommy needs some rest, just 5 minutes.
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