I signed for a package last week.
The delivery guy said, “DiCamillo?”
I said, “Yes.”
“Wait,” he said. “Did you write Because of Winn-Dixie?”
“I did.”
“Oh, wow,” he said. “My third grade teacher read that book to us. I’ll never forget it.”
And then he smiled at me—this radiant, beautiful smile—and I suddenly saw him as an eight-year old kid, sitting in class, listening to a story.
That man’s third-grade teacher is out there somewhere, and I wanted to let her know this: he remembers. He remembers you reading to him.
Happy New Year.

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