here is the key to the house. in the house burns a light. in that light rests a bed. on that bed waits a book.
"boo[k]!" (the k is silent) he shouts upon seeing said book waiting on the the basket next to the bed. then, up onto tippy toes he reaches for it before walking over to me and repeating the word, only this time as a command. [translation: read!] so i sit down cross legged and he slowly backs up into my lap. the house in the night. we go through it a couple of times every day, each time telling a different story. it's a beautifully illustrated board book with so many details that you could go through it hundreds of time without telling the same story twice. sometimes it'll be all about the night sky: how the sun shines on the moons face (and what a pretty face she has, i seeee youuuu luna!) and about counting as many stars as we can - which usually leads to an interlude of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star - before the next page turns. other times it'll be about the bird: how it soars through the dark, getting smaller the higher it flies and about it's song (that i then whistle and august squeeks in imitation).
while i wasn't the [independent] reader my sister was, i did read a lot of great books when i was a kid - i just read them with my dad. he loved literature and it was something he held onto even when everything else in his life was fleeing from him. having children gave him the excuse to read all the stories he had always wanted to read. so when we were growing up and all the way to middle school, he would read to us before bed. some of my best memories come from those nights we stayed up late reading j.r.r. tolkein or c.s. lewis with claudin and i on either side of him, our heads resting on each of his shoulders as he read aloud.