It was a weekday afternoon and my dad was coming for a visit. At least I hoped he was. I was busy getting everything set up. We never had enough time together for my liking, so I wanted it to be nice. A lot had happened in third grade that week and my dad was a good listener. I set out a plate of cheese and crackers, got us each a pretty glass and coaster, and arranged our picture books on the coffee table in front of the comfortable blue sofa that was our reading place. 

As I waited impatiently to hear his car pulling up the driveway, I looked at my arrangement. My gaze rested on the bright green cover of one of my favorite books: The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. A sadness came over me. We had gone to the library at school that day and had ‘the talk’ about picture books. It was time, we were told, to start moving on to more complex reading.  

As I sat and waited for my dad, I closed my eyes and pictured the school library shelves with all of the thick chapter books in muted tones. I imagined myself fanning through the pages of the books in search of a picture. It wasn’t hard to imagine because that is exactly what I had done that morning when the librarian encouraged us to explore. Sometimes there was a sketch or two hidden in the pages, but most of the time there were not. And now, as I looked at the colorful picture books on the table before me, my heart ached at the thought of letting them go.  

How many times had I found myself lost in those pictures. Wrapped up. Carried away. Pulled in. Over and over and over again, each time finding something new or maybe something old that I had seen before but never in the same light. Maybe that was why they never got old to me. So why, I wondered, was there a magic age when I would suddenly be too old for them? I wondered, as I waited my dad, if he had secretly felt like the librarian. Had he been wanting to have a talk with me and tell me that It was time to move on? And if he did feel that way, then what would it mean for our time together. Picture books had always been part of our plan. That is what we did. Together. 

My dad had arrived. Hey little girl, he said lovingly as he walked in the door and gave me a hug. But I wasn’t little anymore. I looked again at the picture books on the table and suddenly felt silly. I tried to picture other third-graders around town doing big-kid things that afternoon. And here I was setting up a tea party for my dad with ginger ale, appetizers, and our main entertainment – a story about a boy who takes and takes and takes from a tree that gives and gives and gives. 

My dad was over the moon with the snack selection. As he munched I caught him up on school and the life of a third-grader. I told him that I was worried about my brother who was being bullied and how I missed my old house by the beach and my old friends. When the last cracker was gone, and we were ready to slip into another world, he reached for The Giving Tree, knowing that it was my favorite. A tear rolled down my cheek. 

We won’t be able to do this forever, Dad. I’m going to miss reading picture books with you.

As hard as I try to remember, I don’t know what my dad said that day in response, but I do remember that we kept on reading that day and for many visits after. I know that I sat next to him instead of on his lap and that we added some bigger books in that still had pictures. I also know that before long, many of those once dreaded books without pictures carried me away and pulled me in, but never quite like those picture books of my childhood. After all, how could they? Picture books had been an experience. 

My mom’s theatrical interpretation of The Lorax, her thoughtful and empathetic readings about the boy who was bullied for taking ballet lessons, the way she stopped on the page while we searched for Sylvester in Sylvester and The Magic Pebble. And my dad, with his slow and poetic reading of The Giving Tree. The spaces between words in this book seemed to narrow the spaces that were growing between us as I grew up. For a story riddled with interpretations, there was only one way that I ‘read’ the story, and it remains unchanged:

At the end of the day, nothing material matters. All along, the truest gift that we can give each other is the gift of time and togetherness. Silverstein, or was it the tree, said it best: 

Come Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.

And the boy did.

And the tree was happy.

I am all grown up now. Maybe it will come as no surprise that I grew up to be a picture book author. I believe that magic happens when children of all ages and adults everywhere come and sit for a while. Together. I believe in picture books. Forever.