There was a set of numbered books that came with the encyclopedia set my Mother bought for us when we were little. I have written of the set before. I so loved the stories in those books. For some reason, this evening, I longed for my childhood twin bed that was positioned in the corner of the bedroom I shared with my baby brother. I couldn't have been more than four years old. The faux wood paneled walls of that corner provided me with constant entertainment. The faux grain of the faux wood morphed into images if I stared at it long enough. I would see a bunny, a tree, faces. It was like watching clouds and it was something I liked to do. The two walls would hug me and it was the coziest place on earth.
I'd hop into bed and start looking for pictures in the walls, finding the old ones. Then I would hear my Mother walking down the hallway and I knew she'd bring me a story and sing me some songs. We'd say our prayers and I would pick a story out of the book. The one I loved the most was of a teddy bear who ran away from his family called The Story of A Little White Teddy Bear Who Didn't Want to Go to Bed by Dorothy Sherrill. As my Mother read I would look at the window and could see how dark it was outside. I could only imagine stepping just outside the front door. There was no way I would leave the secure little corner of my room or my bed to go wandering off like like the little white teddy bear. The story intrigued me and I suppose that is why I liked it so much. Here I am, almost forty years old and so far away from that little corner.