Six months. Six more months until I go back to France. Paris. Of course, that means six months of planning, and thinking about what books I’m going to read or reread in preparation. And what books I’m going to introduce to my son.
As it turns out, to my delighted astonishment, last week in library he picked up a comic book about The Little Prince. On Sunday morning, we read it in one sitting. And although the comic book was ok (what can I say, it’s a comic), I knew I had to read him the original.
So yesterday I went to my favorite bookstore, Bank Street, and picked up one of the newer editions. I have to say I like the old printings better. Everyone is trying to jazz up the covers of the classics, but honestly, some things are classics for a reason.
The woman at checkout eyed my selection. “You’ve chosen one of my favorite books,” she said. Then to my surprise, she lifts up her sleeve and shows me her tattoo. It was the Little Prince.
So, if I were one to believe in signs, or kismet, I’d have to say you got me at the tattoo.
Last night my son and I started on the adventure. My little guy, who’s as squirmy as can be at bedtime, was automatically drawn into the story that begins when the adult narrator remembers a picture he saw in a book of a boa constrictor swallowing a wild beast. He was six-years old. Just like my son.
We didn’t get very far. The narrator’s plane crashes in the desert and the Little Prince wakes him and asks him to draw a sheep. But on our way to school this morning, I realized how much of an impression this story had already made on him. My son was all questions. “Do you think a boa constrictor could really swallow an elephant whole? Why was the Little Prince in the desert? Why did he need a sheep? If his planet is really small, where will he put the sheep?” And then he got reflective. “It’s true. Grown ups don’t see the same things as kids.”
I’m so looking forward to continuing on our adventure. And to all of my son’s questions.