by Charlotte A. Cavatica

Created on: July 21, 2008

It's early October, 1978. I'm rummaging through my toy box, pulling out the figures that go along with my Sesame Street playground set. I love pushing Ernie on the swing, but I can't find Ernie anywhere... I may have to settle for Bert. I can hear my mother talking to my uncle, but it's just background noise... all I can hear is the sound of plastic, wood and metal bits as they clash against each other within the confines of my toy box.

"Tina... can you go get your Jack and the Beanstalk book and read it to Uncle Ray?"

I consider the request, Jack and the Beanstalk versus this quest for an Ernie that insists on remaining lost. My arms were getting tired and I was getting annoyed. Jack and the Beanstalk wins out. I abandon the toy box and walk over to my bookshelf, immediately pulling out the worn, soft-paged book that I had my mother read to me at least once a day every day. I walk over to my Uncle Ray and he hoists me on to his lap. I lean against him, open the book and begin the story.

As I turn each page, I can feel my uncle tensing ever so slightly beneath me, his breathing has picked up and where I couldn't feel his heartbeat when I started reading, now the rhythmic pattern is tapping itself out on my right shoulder blade. Strange, mommy doesn't do that when I read to her.

I finished the book, hopped off his lap and returned to the toy box, intent on pulling everything out of it until I found Ernie. As I start removing toys, I can hear my uncle talking to my mother. His voice is louder and more excited than usual.

"Sally... oh my GOD! She can read?! She just turned 3 years old and she can read? I can't believe it. She paused at the commas, stopped at the periods and turned the pages when she was supposed to - this is incredible, Sally, she's a genius!"

I didn't know what a genius was, but I guessed by the sound of his voice that it was a good thing. I continued pulling toys out of the toy box, but I made a conscious effort to be quieter so I could hear what my mother said in response. She laughed.

"No, Ray... she can't read. She's got it memorized"

It's late December, 1986. I'm staring at the clock on the wall, willing it to move faster. Sister Rosemond is standing next to Paul, two desks over from me. She's giving him reassuring praise as he stumbles and stutters his way through the text he's reading aloud from. I want to throttle him.

Two weeks ago I was sent to see Sister Rosemond. I didn't know what that meant, I just knew her as the friendly, kind old lady

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