Books books books

When I was younger, I would sit for hours on the frayed brown couch in my living room with a book propped in my lap.  With one thumb in my mouth and my other hand twirling a strand of hair, I had to do some complicated maneuvering to turn each page.  I gravitated towards mystery and fantasy, books that were worlds away from my daily experience.  My family moved when I was eleven, and I carefully organized my new bookshelf with my favorite series at eye level (they're now at shoulder height) and chose my favorite picture books to keep on the bottom shelf.  Whenever I had trouble sleeping in high school, I would grab four or five or twelve children's books and read myself to sleep.  Books are my comfort zone, especially children's books and young adult fiction.  I've graduated to more challenging texts, but the old standbys can still surprise me.  Rereading some of my favorites in order to teach them (and just for fun) last year, I found themes and connections that I had never seen before.  The best part is, they had been there the whole time.