Wrenn and I are reading "The Waterbabies" , one of my favourites as a child. In my copy, there are only a few simple pen and ink illustrations that accompany this old story, and I love that. The absence of a defined image compels her to stretch her imagination to "see" Tom, the dirtiest chimney sweep in London, and the Irishwoman, who is really the Queen Fairy, and Ellie, the little girl in the clean, white nightgown. And I can't wait to get to Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby and Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid.

I love to look at her face as she listens to the story. She's not necessarily watching me, but she's there, in that imagined world of caddises and trouts and dragonflies and waterlilies. Layer upon layer, the words build the world, and her only map is the sound of my voice.

I love that the story isn't over, there's no "the end" to settle her imagination. She is free to consider what Tom may do next, what strange creatures he might
meet, what fun may be had in the nights of reading to come. Later, as she drifts to sleep, I know she's thinking about what if she was Tom, and one day she turned into a waterbaby.

Strange, that over twenty years ago, I was dreaming the same things as this curly haired little girl that I call my own.

I put the book away,with promises for another chapter tomorrow. I bend down, and kiss the soft, smooth skin of her forehead, and pat down those unruly locks, and smell that unique little girl bouquet of soap and sweetness-- and I know, sometimes imagination doesn't even come close. No words could capture that moment, no book could hold the reality.

Hugged and kissed, she goes to sleep, dreaming of those fanciful things. Hugged and kissed, I go to sleep, knowing those fanciful things.