She hung on every word, smiling, while being whisked to a faraway, magical land.

My mother loved to read, and I was often the happy recipient of her uncanny ability to bring a story to life. I would sit comfortably on her lap or plopped cross-legged on the floor in front of her chair to be whisked to a faraway, magical land.

The Velveteen Rabbit. I was utterly engrossed in every word of Margery Williams’ delightful tale, allowing my young mind to imagine the well-worn little rabbit snuggling with the boy or his deep conversations with the Skin Horse. “Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.” Of course, this one quote opened up an entire world of fantasy for me. If this were true, then my entire stuffed animal and doll collections would also have the potential to become real. It was a life-changing concept for an imaginative seven-year-old.

And then there was The Ugly Duckling by Hans Christian Andersen. Tears would well up in my eyes when my mother read about the little duckling being ostracized by his siblings and other farm animals simply because he was different. The redeeming finale of The Ugly Duckling, transformed into a beautiful swan, never failed to bring a round of cheers.

Of course, Cinderella was my hero, both when she was a mistreated young stepsister and later when she became a lovely princess. I knew that all things were possible when one truly believed, because Cinderella said so. Besides, she had Gus the mouse to substantiate her claims.

There was Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White, The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett, and a score of other classics never to be forgotten and first introduced to me by my mother.

My precious mama left with the angels on a brisk October day, and life just hasn’t been quite the same without her. That said, what an incredible legacy she imparted. A couple of years before she died, her eyesight had diminished to such a degree that she was unable to see the print in her treasured books. It was then that I had the absolute joy of reading to her. Just like me so many years before, she hung on every word, smiling while being whisked to a faraway, magical land.