To know the words in the books

This is a poem inspired by my 3-year-old nephew, Ross.  He's just beginning to learn his letters after announcing to his mom, "I don't know the words in the books like you and dad."  That line really moved me, so I wrote the following.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Synapses form in the child's brain -
connections of how and why and when
and where things work.
The codex marvels his months-old mind -
flipping pages, imbibing color, revealing
knowledge and narrative.
Growing older, learning the words,
hearing the stories now, and imploring,
"Read it again."
Older still, he realizes when "grown ups"
open the book, they see more than
shapes and symbols.
The child knows, implicitly - even if
inarticulately - that to some the book
offers impartation.
Seeking the gift, he whispers, "Mom,
I don't know the words in the books
like you and dad ."
So, he discovers another level of learning
Sensory of the mind, not of the fingers
or nose or tongue.
He begins the distinctly human process
of extracting meaning from symbols
and sounds from shapes.
The pain and frustration and delight of
learning become milestones on his quest
to possess this gift.
This precious boy, just setting out on
the road of language and learning
makes me marvel.
For like the little boy, I am seeking
to "know the words in the books,"
to extract the meaning.
He reminds me of the gift, of my
gratitude and of my hope to share
this impartation.

Wow! I'm so blessed that so many of my friends have expressed interest in The History of Love. Honestly, sharing art and watching people enjoy what I am passionate about--I think that is my love language! Sometimes I almost pity my husband in advance:

"Honeeey, would you read Jane Austen?"

"Hon, can I read this amaaaazing passage to you?"

"Babe! We have to watch this film!!"

Ok, ok. I promise I won't be terribly nagging... especially about the Austen novels and girlie movies.

All that being said... I'm thrilled that other people are looking into this novel. I do feel like I owe you a disclaimer, however. I've shared what I've found beautiful and moving. But, just so you know, the book is not filled entirely with loveliness and Keats-quotations. There is death and separation and sadness. There is the eccentric Leopold Gursky who--though in his 80's--would pose as a nude model for an art class because, in his words, "All I want is not to die on a day when I went unseen." There is the lonely, but eager Alma Singer whose kisses never work out like quite she plans. There is her mother, Charlotte, who Alma just wants to be "not sad" after her father died:

My mother never fell out of love with my father. She's kept her love for him as alive as the summer they first met. In order to do this, she's turned life away. Sometimes she subsits for days on water and air. Being the only known complex life-form to do this, she should have a species named after her... She chose my father, and to hold on to a certain feeling, she sacrificed the world.

I just wanted to give a more rounded representation of The History of Love. I don't mean to deter any of you. To be quite honest, I think I am just in love with the many lonely and akward moments as I am with the beautiful. And in the midst of both, I found the tought process of an author and one of th most sentimentally striking passage that I've read documenting the treck of one small book across continents. [I'm having to restrain myself from posting the whole glorious passage up here. But I don't want to ruin it for you... but let me know when you've read it ;]

I think the history of love is all of these things, but also so much more. The thing this History is largely lacking is the One who makes "life a thing of beauty and a joy forever." There are so many people searching for a love, for a word they can't seem to define. I wanted to jump into the narrative, take characters by the hand, and tell them, "He's the One who has 'words for everything.'"