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[Booksr4ever66]

A baby girl, for a daughter she'd plead. Collecting books, so to her she could read. For nine months she read aloud from that "Mother Goose" book. From within, from her, a love of reading I took.

Her voice is my own as I give you these words. Hers is the sweetest voice that I've ever heard.

She taught me to say them, to hear them, to feel. Her words to my soul are as bread to a starved man, a meal.

When I'm lost and alone, it is her voice I long for. To once again hear her read to me, she is the key that unlocked this door.

These words that I give you, they are not mine.. I only borrow. They are hers, they echo within me. Always will… yesterday, today and tomorrow.

I hear her with every decision I make, even when I venture far away and her advice I don't take . Softly she whispers sweet words to me…" As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be."

Some think in words, others in numbers. Her children sleep peacefully, deep in their slumber.
Stories of ducks counting their eggs, "read it again momma," a little girl begs. Now I lay me down to sleep, I dream in her words…of "Little Bo Peep" and her little lost sheep .

Part of her daily routine, reading was fundamental. Letters, phonics and rhymes, all elemental. Because of my Mother, I am able to find words. To unite them, in harmony, like the melody of a bird.

I can use them to tell you of the fiery Autumn skies. I can tell you of talking spiders and of a wooden puppet boy, who lies.

She said I give you these words, there are many reasons. You will hear them in your head and heart, for all time, for every season.

I had a mother who read to me, of Rapunzel's hair and elves. Of Emmit's Pig, a silly lad, with pig books upon his shelves.

Knowledge is power, ignorance is bliss. She read aloud to me of "Snow White's" kiss. One two, buckle my shoe. Three- four, she unlocked the door. She led me to these pages, these words that I share. many days , countless hours, she's with me, she's there.

These days, whenever a word I write. I remember her reading to me each and every night. My mothers love, her voice, arms holding me so tight. She's the sound in my ears, the voice in my words. They aren't truly mine, first they were hers. Her stories were priceless, those books now are too. She knew of their value, she somehow just knew.

I had a mother who read to me, which makes me richer than you, you see? When I close my eyes it's her words I see. For I am part of her and she is part of me.
As I write them, recite them, and give them away. Inside my heart I can still feel her say, "Once Upon a Time." Long ago, in a land in my mind.. a mother, my mother, so soft and so kind. She bathed a little girl, dressed her, combed her hair, even tamed that little curl. She pulled her up close, tucked her into bed… then a night time story that mother lovingly read. " Mother Goose Rhymes," and "A Child's Garden of Verses," were just two. She said I love you with all my heart, and this I do for you. One day you'll close your eyes and go way back in time. You'll remember my stories, my words and these rhymes. When the days were long, and lonesome and blue, She healed my sad heart, as only she could do. With a smile she would say, "wish on a star, you'll go far." "Reading gives us somewhere to go when we have to stay where we are."

"Humpty Dumpty," as a tot I craved. Later, it was "Charlotte's Web" about which I raved.
She read them so often the pages are worn. Tattered, aged, dog-eared and torn.
My words are not mine, they come from her soul. I'll wrap myself in them someday when I'm old. No voice could comfort or settle my fears as the melody and tone of her voice through the years.

"Humpty Dumpty" sat on a wall. And Mr. And Mrs. Mallard, they swam. Because my momma read them to me, I am all that I am.

These words are not my own, of them I can't take credit. The book I cherish with all my heart, I do so because she read it.
Her words echo from within my soul. I hear them oh so clearly. The stories and books, and the woman who read them, I love so much, so dearly.

"Ole King Cole," "Jack be Nimble, Jack be Quick." They bring sweet memories, so precious and thick.

A blanket to warm me when I am alone and cold. Her sweet words will comfort me, when I in my last days, am childlike and old.

All that I am or ever hope to be, I am because my mother read to me.

My words aren't my own, they aren't from my head. They are hers, they are timeless. I have them because my Mother, to me, she read.

I can use words and tell you how God gave us His Son. And of Moses, given to lead, to be the chosen one.
"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills," she would recite. That verse in Psalms was her guide, to seek God day and night.
She called out to Him with those beautiful words. King David wrote them, but my mother's voice He heard.

"…You may have tangible wealth untold. Caskets of jewels, coffers of gold. Richer than I, you can never be. For I had a mother who read to me.
Gillian wrote that but to me it applies. The beginning of my love for the word with my mentor lies.
My mother so gentle, my hero, my muse. Only her would I have, had God allowed me to choose. So smooth her voice like a flowing brook. She gave me these words and my great love of books.

I am richer than you for you see, my precious mother, she read to me.