Perhaps the most familiar lines of any picture book that might have been enjoyed by younger and older readers alike have been those of Robert Munsch in his book, LOVE YOU FOREVER. In case you missed them:

“I’ll love you forever
I’ll like you for always
As long as I’m living
My baby you’ll be.”

And, now. . .I’ll bet you remember. The squarish appearance of the book. The soft blue cover with Sheila McGraw’s impish little boy sitting beside the toilet, with the toilet tissue streaming everywhere. What’s not to love? After all, we get to look in to the book. We get to read in to the story.

There is no stern scolding or reprimand we must deliver.

There are no papers that we need to clean up.

There are no doors we must close to assure that this wouldn’t happen again.

There is a story of a mother’s love for her child.

As that child grows, the story remains the same.

And the song is easy enough to remember.

It resonates with us because of the promise of a mother to love her child “forever.”

Recently, in Room 407, a young lady I had not seen for the past four weeks came to the door. She had missed a lot of class. We were instructed to treat her marks as “incomplete.”

And how true could a evaluative stance be in this case. “Incomplete.” My student had come from recently burying her mother.

Yes. “Incomplete” would certainly describe this student now.

When I saw the young lady come into the room, we didn’t need to talk about missing papers. There would be no firm reminder of the need to come to school. No door had been closed. She was my student. And she still was.

But, I had missed a door that had attempted to close itself. The young lady asked me, in earnest, “Mr. Hankins, even though I am not a student in your class anymore, could I still borrow books from you?”

I told her the answer was certainly “Yes.” I told her, “When you crossed the threshold of that door, you became my student. And you will never stop being my student. It’s a most magical door for its ability to transform young people who were not my students into young people who now are. . .and will always be.”

This seemed to put her at ease. She handed me a sticky note with the words “love you forever” and “r munsch.” I immediately recognized the book she was seeking. “Is this the book you would like to borrow? I do have this one. Let me get it for you.”

The young lady followed me to where we keep our picture books and I pulled down Munsch’s book. She held it as though I had just laid the most precious treasure in her hands. She looked at me and shared, “My mother read this to us. . .my brother and me.”

“So, this book is very special to you, isn’t it? It’s always been one of my favorites too. Are you going to read it today?”

“I’m going to take it home to read to my brother,” she shared, “I am living with him now.”

“Is this your younger brother?” I asked.

“No. He’s older. My mother shared this with him before she shared it with me. But. . .it’s a special book for both of us. I don’t know what happened to our copy, but I am glad that you have this one for me to borrow.”

“No,” I replied, “I have this one for you to keep. The book is yours. For as long as you need it. You might say. . .this book is yours. . .’forever.'”

The young lady took the book with her. And I started to think of something else she shared while she was in the room. Having missed so much school prior to her mother’s unexpected death, she was now going to recover her credits on-line. She would not be coming back to Room 407 every other day to be a part of our learning community.

And what makes this the most tragic of all for me is this:

When it came time for her to make an effort to move from her now to the next, she sought out a book. Not a book from the canon. Not one from the required reading list. Not even a book written at her reading level.

She sought out a book that meant something to her and to her family.

You know. . .people often ask why we not only keep picture books in Room 407, but why we share them so liberally with college-bound students. On this particular Friday. . .just any old Friday in any given week in any given school year, this young lady felt like she could come to Room 407 and ask if I had it. She could have asked anyone in the building. She could have gone to the library. She came to Room 407. And we made that book to reader connection.

But that connection had been made years before. We were simply acting as a liaison to the memory of a story shared. A book that promised “forever” by proxy, that was needed in proximity of what “forever” means when it is not neatly packaged in a hardback book.

This is what these books do, isn’t it? Isn’t each page turn a yearning of our heart for a skilled author to “say more. . .” or to “keep sharing your story with me. . .” Isn’t there is pregnant pause that comes of finishing the last few pages that seems to violate our sense of “forever.”

But when we go back to pick up that book again, we feel that we have never really been left alone. This is why toddlers watch the same Barney video again and again and again. There is comfort in knowing the beginning. . .the middle. . .the end.

There is something in a book, by way of their neatly arranged chapters, that offer great comfort. The boy in Robert Munsch’s book never really ages beyond his new-found manliness even when he is singing to his own child. The mother never ages and certainly never dies. Never needs to be buried in the fall of some year that the son is trying to piece together his own identity and beginning to set forth a path he will walk in his life.

The story. . .is “complete.” There is a circle we can see. And it is as round.  . .and as wide. . .as two arms can wrap around and envelop someone that needs to hear the words “love” and “forever.” Have you heard these lately?

So. . .I’ve lost my copy of Robert Munsch’s LOVE YOU FOREVER. I’ve lost it to a memory of a read aloud between a mother and a daughter. I’ve lost it to the promise that the book had made some time ago.

I lost that book to the void that has been created by loss I cannot measure because I am reading the story from the outside. It’s not neatly packaged. There will be hard times ahead for this young lady.

But there is something new in our relationship. This young lady has not been a strong student in the past, and she was not a strong student, academically, in our first marking period together.

But we have made a connection through a book. Isn’t that what we had been trying to do before her extended absence? Now, I grieve that her options are to earn her credit through some online program that will not honor her need for realism and relevance right now.

There are no quizzes that I know of for LOVE YOU FOREVER. And I am glad for this.

Some books are not made for quizzes. They are what I call “quid pro pro” tomes. They ask something of us while we ask something from them. They ask us to remember what “forever” means and they mean for us to stick to our end of the deal.

And I made a “forever” promise of my own, didn’t I? I think it is time to stand in the gap for this young lady. We are now bound by a book we have shared. And I am bound to share more with her during her remaining time at Silver Creek High School.

Isn’t this what “forever” means? We love our “forever” books enough to share them when the time comes to do so. . .

Somewhere, very close to the place where I live. . .last night. . .I could have sworn that I heard a small, broken voice, struggling through the lines of a song that appear in a book that has meant so much to the reader. . .so much to many readers. To her, her brother.

To you.

To me.

I think. . .no, I believe. . .what I heard was an attempt to be “complete” again.

Good reading, my “forever” friends.

Please. . .be well.