My mom would read my sister and I a chapter a night out of this book a few times while we were growing up. I remember the shorter chapters, begging her to read another chapter. I remember the soft orange light of my parent’s bedroom, myself nuzzled against her, my sister on the other side, as my mom read about James and his friends and their adventures.
Sometimes, when I am next to my mom these days, whether we’re watching TV or at dinner or driving in the car, I lean into her and smell her and remember that closeness I felt when I was young. Nothing is as close as a child’s love for their mother, or a mother’s love for her children. I am lucky to still be able to feel that with mine.