As a preschool age child, I felt a sense of frustration and loss that part of the world wasn’t available to me to understand, because I couldn’t read. I had a book called 365 Stories for Every Day of the Year. I didn’t know the exact title. I can, however, remember climbing up the side of my cupboard to reach for it on the highest shelf. I used to page through it mystified and wish that I could read it. I remember asking to be read to and always being given some reason or other why tonight wasn’t a good night.
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