The biker’s face crumbled. Whatever wall he’d been holding up collapsed completely.
“Because it’s the only thing anyone ever read to me.”
He sat down heavily in the chair beside my desk. Didn’t ask permission. I don’t think his legs could hold him anymore.
“My mama died when I was five,” he said. “Car accident. Drunk driver. After that, it was just me and my old man.”
He paused. Wiped his face with the back of his hand.
“My father wasn’t a good man. He drank. He hit. He disappeared for days and left me alone in that trailer with nothing to eat.” His voice was flat. Mechanical. Like he was reading from a script he’d memorized long ago.
“But before Mama died, she used to read to me every night. Same book. Every single night. She’d hold me in her lap and read ‘Goodnight Moon’ until I fell asleep.”
He touched the destroyed book on the counter. Gently. Reverently.
“After she died, I couldn’t remember her face. Couldn’t remember her voice. All I had were these pictures. The great green room. The red balloon. The quiet old lady whispering hush.”
His voice broke completely.
I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything.
“I’ve had this book for fifty-two years,” he continued. “Carried it with me through foster care when my daddy went to prison. Carried it through juvie. Through twenty years of running with the wrong people. Through prison myself. Through rehab. Through three marriages that all fell apart.”
He laughed bitterly.
“I’ve slept in alleys and under bridges and in the back of vans. I’ve lost everything I’ve ever owned more times than I can count. But I never lost this book. Never.”
He opened it carefully. The pages were barely holding together.
Continue reading…
