“Oh joyous crunchings and munchings!”
                -Lloyd Alexander, The Book of Three

                The last three nights, after crawling in bed, my partner and I have been reading a novella out loud with each other. Well, we finished the novella, actually, and tonight we’re starting the sequel, and it’s so lovely to fall into story together. To feel the rise and fall of different voices. To get drowsy (and awake! We stayed up too late last night, but there were only 60 pages left) in these shared places.
                Growing up my parents read to us. My siblings and I all still read to each other sometimes. As an English teacher my students and I would read in class, sometimes reluctantly and sometimes excitedly (though I always have a rule: you don’t need to read aloud if you don’t want to), and so many of my lovely friends are the kind who every now and then share a page aloud from the book in their hands. Or read a play, divvying up the parts. Or speak a whole book of poetry while sitting at an empty bus stop even though the bus isn’t running today. These moments live through me in a way I can’t really explain. Four years ago, for instance, I might’ve said I barely remembered Alexander’s The Book of Three. Then I heard my brother reading it to his kids. And I was a kid. And I read a chapter aloud, hearing others’ voices in my voice. And I remember all those rhythms. Those places. These people. These crunchings and munchings are treats I eat and eat again, months later, years later, circling back, remembering, circling forward and becoming. And how delicious they are.