Many years ago, I found a picture of my godfather giving me a gift.
It’s weird, because it isn’t a book. He and his wife always gave me books. She was a librarian, he was a teacher. The book I most remember, because I read it roughly 50,000 times, and because I still own it today, its edges worn and frayed, its hard cover that maybe used to be black now some sort of greenish-grey, was Shel Silverstein’s A Light in the Attic.