Reading and writing is a refuge for me. I have loved them both for so long they

are my best friends. We know each other well. I feel as if we are lost in translation. But

I am and will always be the person who loves the written word the person that loves to

bathe in the glow of words written, spoken and read.

The earliest memories of my literacy are so vivid. I remember walking down the

hall; people are everywhere. I hear noise ... lots of noise. The sound of laughter and the

sharp sound of pots pinging against one another. I hear my grandmothers voice the hardiest of them all laughing and giving out instructions to my aunts. I think something big is happening, I don't know what but I know it's definitely something big. I go into the kitchen to figure out what's going on. When I enter everyone stops, turns to me and speaks and then immediately goes back to their task. I decide to stay there with my grandmother and aunts in the kitchen, they seemed to be having lots of fun. I chose to stay in the kitchen to take part in their fun too. But instead I am almost trampled in the small room, by all the long legs and tall voices. There is just too much noise and I feel lost in the kitchen with all of the chaos. So, without a goodbye I leave the room and close the wooden sliding door behind me, head hung and a little sad.

So here I stand in my grandmothers dinning room upset and looking for something to do. I then notice one of my closest and dearest friends smiling and looking down at me. I grab my stool that my grandfather had placed in the dinning room corner just for me, ( I was instructed to use it whenever I wanted to play with my friend) I reach up and hug my friends neck like I was taught. I pulled him down close to me and we both descend from the stool, all smiles. My friend is powder blue with big round ears, a button nose, and is always bearing a smile. He wears gloves on his hands that come to his wrist and his arms are outstretched, holding some of my most precious and prized possessions, my Disney books. If you had not guessed by now my friend is Mickey Mouse. He was a gift from my grandparents along with lots of other books and toys, but he was the most cherished of them all by far. He sat on a throne, a high place in our dinning room on the shelf. So there we are again Mickey and me in the corner on the floor "reading". I am happy touching every page. These are not only my books, these are my favorite books. My mom reads them to me almost every night. The Mickey Mouse book case held about five narrow books. I was on about book three when I heard a familiar voice. Hello April. It's a kind of deep and gritty voice with a splash of stern love and kindness. I knew exactly who it was. I did not even have to look up. He continued "oh you can read". It was more of a statement than a question. I ignored his comment and continued to "read". On and on I went. Until I got to "the" word. It was "the" word that sent me into a spiral of shame and embarrassment. "The" word that had unraveled the whole scene. The scene of me big and bright reading a book that was almost half my size. The scene of me impressing a man that I knew was so smart. Darn this word, whatever it is. I had remembered all the others, how stupid and silly of me not to remember this one. Come on, come on think what is this word? The jig was up. I had been found out, ratted out by my own brain. How awful. "So you can't read" my uncle said in the same tone still more of a statement than a question. He squatted down beside me and said "You remembered all those words, all those pages?" I could hear the sympathy in his voice for my obvious embarrassment and shame. I said yes. Then he asked me a question that would change my life for forever. "Would you like to learn how to read?" And again I said yes. My uncle Gregory but more often called Greg was a serious man I can remember that. He still is. My uncle Greg, I knew