Project Armchair

The sun streams through tall windows in yellow shafts of warmth.  The room is quiet, save for the gentle tick of the mantle clock, and speckles of golden dust float noiselessly in the vacuum of sound.  The chair is massive, soft, and well-worn; like the hug of an old, fuzzy bear.  A child is there, lost in the hug of the chair, mesmerized by the hush of the sanctuary.  The book in his lap is a portal to another universe.  One without pain,  fear, or uncertainty.  The child in the enormous chair does not hear the tick of the clock or see the golden specks that float around his head.  He is only cognizant of the place he has entered through The Portal.  His heart is light and his world at peace.  For this magic, sacred moment, all is well.

I  walked into Room 658 on the pediatric floor of the red-bricked hospital.  The child is obviously ill.  Eyes are clouded, lethargy dominates.  Parents share tired, worried expressions.  "Hi, I am Mrs. Dahl.  I am a reading teacher and the nurse's station said you might be interested in having your child read to."  Surprised expressions and then weary half-smiles.  "Sure, that would be nice."  I lay three or four age-appropriate books in front of the child and a tiny, fevered finger points to a bright cover.  

I never ask about the illness.  Let the weary children and parents have a moment's reprieve from the nightmare.  There are people enough to agitate the waters of worry.

I read the title and open the front cover.  Once the story begins I can feel child and adult alike pulled into the melodic rhythm of the text and the beautiful accompanying illustrations.  Soon there are smiles - even giggles, and looks of delighted surprise from exhausted parents' eyes.  And for those golden, brief, priceless moments, there are no beeping machines, no IV tethers, and no grim prognoses.  There is only the magic of the written word and the visual splendor of artful illustrations.

When we have finished and I whisper, "The End," I hand the book to the child, see the gratitude on the face of the parent, and smile brightly, hoping to wordlessly convey HOPE.

And occasionally as I walk out the door, I hear the flip of a page and a childish voice retelling the story, just as I had read it to them moments before.  I smile to myself because I know that child has entered The Portal where the written word has transported them to an island of peace.