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READING “THE NUTCRACKER” Lindsey Bartlett A single dad and his three-year-old daughter live in the duplex next to mine. A laundry room a shared space. On any given night there will be sporadic knocks at my door from a little fist. Followed by the patter of tiny feet as she runs to hide. I open the door and pretend to search. Grin at her squeals when she sees me, “Lindsey, come play with me!” she says. Tonight, we read “The Nutcracker” sitting on the wood floor, her elbow against my knee. I’ve watched her grow, just a few months ago she would not have cared about this story. Now she sits fascinated, stopping me only to point out pictures of girls in pretty dresses. Otherwise, she lets me read, you can see her absorbing the words, three-year-old brain like a sponge. I don’t know how much I can give to her, but at least I can share a love of stories and words; the things most important to me. One day, maybe, they will be the same for her.
