The sun was gone for the day and the moon was in the endless dark starry sky. The clock that hung on the wall projected the time. It was seven forty in the evening. I was five years old and it was like any other night. I had already taken a bath which I always referred to as “bubble water,” and put on my pajamas, which were covered with pink, purple, and light blue hearts. I had washed and brushed my hair, rinsed my hands, and brushed my teeth with the bubble mint colgate toothpaste that the dentists always gave me. I had crawled into my cozy bed with my sister who at that time was six and snuggled under the covers. I gazed up at the ceiling which was covered with glow in the  dark stars that almost everyone had in their bedroom and the overhead dangling purple and pink paper butterflies. I waited anxiously for eight o’clock to come because that was the very best part of my evening.  

It was at eight o’clock when my father used enter my room. He and my mom used to come into the room that my sister and I onced shared every night to tuck us in.

“bonne nuit ma cherie, I love you,” My mother said as she peeped her head into the room

“ Goodnight, I love you more,” My sister and I replied back to my mom.

“ I love you the most,” My mom said finally as she slipped away.

My father picked out my favorite book from my very large unorganized bookcase. The book was called “Papa’s Song” by Kate McMullen. The book had a deep blue cover and a sort of smooth and magical touch to it. The book's exterior was matte which was either because it came that way or because I would read it so often that it became worn. My sister and I were doe eyed ready and eager to hear the story for the thousandth time. My build-a-bear rabbit named “bunny” was right by my side with her own personal pillow.

My father slowly opened the book revealing the page where all the credits were listed. Of course my sister and I had no intention of reading or listening to my dad read the credits so he turned the page once more to introduce the story. Every time the book was opened a sort of magic filled the room. The pictures were vivid with excellence and the words were full of lessons to learn. I lifted my hand to feel the silky pages of the book, and the velvety matte texture of the book's cover. My hand smoothly transferred across the page. In a diagonal line as my hand slowly dropped the further I went on. I covered the picture with my hand once more before letting it drop off the page to the cover's edge. I ran my hand down the edge of the book feeling the rounded corner which was a fault from being dropped so many times. The connors were splitting apart and you could see all of the layers within the cover. It had a few ripped pages and was older than me at the time however as old and fragile as it was, it could make me smile on the worst of days, and spread its magic first through me and then to the rest of my family.

My father slowly read through the book as my sister and I enjoyed the magic it gave off giggling, smiling, and whispering to each other not to quitely. The end of the story was coming up and at that point I was more concerned about being told to go to bed than listening to the story. In denial to go to bed I kicked my legs out of the pink tufted covers and ran over to the bookcase to get a few more books for my dad to read to me. He was tired after the long day and so was I but I did not want to close my eyes and lay my head down on a pillow so I handed him to books. He told me in a harmonious voice that tonight was not a good night to read more stories because I had to go to rest my eyes. After a few minutes of discussing why I should or should not go to bed, I gave in and reluctantly tucked my small legs under the covers. My father looked back through the book finding where he left off before beginning to read again. The story was nearly over and there was only one page left.
My father continued on reading and on the very last page he slowly finished saying the last two words “The End.”
He closed the book as he carefully stood up from sitting on the bed before moving back over to the bookcase to place the book back to its original location. “Goodnight.” he said to my sister and I before leaving the room.

I stared back up at the multicolored butterflies thinking to myself, I am not tired and I will not go to sleep! As I laid awake in bed I thought about the soft texture of the book, and the smooth pages within the two navy covers. The bright colors drawn onto the pages and the dark black ink that held the magic. I thought of my father lying on the pink covers as he opened the book, and my mother coming into the room to say good night. I thought of my sisters dark hair and warm heart that would do anything to protect me. I snuggled into the warm and fuzzy covers before actually closing my eyes and falling asleep about one minute after I told myself I wouldn’t.

Looking back on being a five year old listening to silly stories I thought there was nothing special about it. I thought that every child was read a book going to bed before realizing that some children do not even have beds, books, or parents to read to them or teach them how to read. I now at the age of fourteen look back on being told stories appreciative to my parents for telling them to me. As when I was little I thought nothing of being told a bedtime story but now it is so memorable and cherishable even though it was an action so simple as reading a book.