Reeve’s home for the summer. He’s been cleaning out his room, trying to get rid of old stuff to make the space feel more like his room (as in contemporary and current), less like a shrine to his childhood. He found this in the front of an old book.
I don’t remember his writing this, but am oddly flattered—all these years later. Obviously, he thought of this book as one we read together.
You never know (except, sometimes you do! Sometimes, even 17 years down the road!) what your child notices—and claims . . . The things you do together matter.
P.S. Killer ampersand, eh?