The Fox Book

Don't say it for me. Book spine creaks You press the book flat with your palm. I pull my chair beside yours. All right, Dad. Your reading class has finished. It's dark beyond the library glass. You told me on the phone, There's something I'd like you to hear. Then you take my fox book from your bag, the one I chewed along the edge. You rub the marks my teeth have left. I thought we'd try this. You find the opening sentence. You start it, then start again. My thumb is waiting at the corner before you've reached the bottom. You glance down at my hand. I put it in my lap. I won't turn the page. I'm listening, Dad. If you start that line again, I'll hear that line again. The fox is meant to eat his supper. I remember muddy boots on a table set for company, and a mother fox who swore. You always checked the doorway before you did her voice. I'd laugh into the blanket so Mum wouldn't send you out. Then, when I could read, I stopped you halfway through. That's not what it says, Dad. Mum reads it properly. You said, Let's get your mum, then. After that, she read to me. I won't turn the page. I'm listening, Dad. There's something I remember that isn't written here. Close bowed strings enter You say, I couldn't read it. I was looking at the pictures. That fox had to do something till you went to sleep. I say, Why didn't you tell me? You look straight at me. You were a little girl. I look down at the fox. He slept with his boots on. You smile. Your mum hated that bit. I won't turn the page. I'm listening, Dad. The fox is waiting for his supper. I can wait for that. You read to the bottom. Then your thumb lifts the corner. All right, you say. The next one. Page turns