I was looking for a book the other day (I live in a house filled with books and the books are not organized in any truly helpful way and so I spend a lot of time looking for books) and I came upon my old copy of Chicken Soup with Rice.
The book is dinged up by age, and by repeated re-readings, and also by Nanette (the dog I grew up with—a Standard Poodle of exemplary character who was, however, known to chew on the occasional book).
I held this book in the palm of my hand, and I almost wept.
Why?
I don’t know.
It was like holding Nanette (she chewed on the spine of this book!) and also like holding my own childhood self.
It was like holding the house in Merion, Pennsylvania where I sat in a corner of the living room and stared at the pictures in the book and made up the story because I didn’t know the words.
All that, in the palm of my hand—all that in a book.
So: happy once, happy twice, happy chicken soup with rice.

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