No, despite the not-so-catchy and useless-via-search-engine-optimization title up there, I am not thinking so much of death right now. Rather, a smaller frontier.
I read Chestnut this very familiar, Jewish, family-oriented series a few years ago.
And BOY did she love it. She just…loved it. It was compelling but not too scary, warm, sweet, just everything that Chestnut admires and responds to. We went all the way through all the books, and then sighed in pleasure, like when you finish something really delicious, and that was the end of it.
Until this week, when Chestnut came home lugging her massive fourth-grade backpack, and collapsed onto the couch for the first part of her homework: 1/2 hour of reading a just-right book. Her just-right book? You guessed it: All of a Kind Family.
Except this time, I'm not in the loop. We see her all over the house, perched in different areas, happily reading it through all over again, but this time she's reading it on her own and I have nothing at all to do with it. Which is good. And wonderful. And all of that. But it's just so weird. Somehow, amid all the struggles and the reversed letters and the different years, she's become the person who reads aloud to other people, or the person who reads—just privately—to herself.
I don't mean this to be a lament. I am so happy for her that she's, for want of a less creepy term, one of us now. It's just that it must change the reading of the book so much. And I have no idea how, exactly, because I'm on the outside. I feel like I'm watching her little ship set sail on some crazy journey. Farewell, Chestnut! Bon voyage!