Waking to Consciousness With the Word: Reading to Children


Today at 4 a.m., the knocking and soughing of the radiators, a floor below our bed, is burglars: inept, dropping my husband’s priceless trumpets and my mother’s Gorham spoons into pillow cases.

When I first moved into this alien, New Jersey structure, the wee-hour cacophony comprised, I felt sure, squirrels catapulting heavily between our house’s inner and outer walls; or gale-force winds turning roof-high corners on their way south; or certainly, the long, diminishing whistles of freight trains bound for Hackensack and beyond.