Some mornings when I'm up early and it's just me and my oldest boy awake in the house, wandering around pulling out cereal bowls and wiping away sleep, I pull my feet up on my chair and I start telling him about the book that kept me up late the night before. I tell him about the parts I know he might connect with, that might start the beginnings of a smile on the corner of his face the way they do on mine. Like when Park lets Eleanor read X-Men comics over his shoulder on the bus. Or how Puck and Sean Kendrick ride Corr above the bloodthirsty beaches of Thisby. Or that golden day when Peter and Tiger Lily lie in the tall grass and watch the wild horses run.
But then when he inevitably asks if he can read it as soon as I'm done, I'm forced to answer sometimes that he can't. More often than not because there's some little thing in it, some element, some dialogue, some scene that makes it so I can't just hand it to my 10-year-old boy. And I feel sad. I want to share every good book I read with him right then. I want to let those scenes land inside him and watch his eyes light and his corners smile and talk about them with him in those early mornings when it's just the two of us awake. I know it will all come in time. It's just sometimes I'm bad at being patient. But someday. I know.
Someday all the books, Will. All the books for you.