A friend’s granddaughter was helping her mother put away the books in their new home. Her father was at sea.
Suddenly, the little girl squealed with delight. Look Mommy, she said. It’s the holly bibble.
Now I don’t know if, after a couple of quiet chuckles, her mother corrected her or not. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the pleasure the child got when she saw the book.
She knew it contained stories….ones she liked….maybe like Blueberries for Sal or even better. She probably knew some of the names in the book, could say some of it by heart, knew it was important in its own way. And she gave it her own name.
She made it special to herself. Right now, in her wonderful innocence, that book has its own meaning to her. We don’t know how that will evolve in the future.
Now, don’t try to find the holly bibble through Amazon or Barnes and Noble. It doesn’t exist. It does exist in the child’s heart at the moment. We hope it stays there with her own unique stamp on it and that no one tries to take that away.