Memories are made of this

When Sam was in the fifth grade, I read The Lord of the Rings to him from my big, red book. We read a little everyday. Some days we read a lot. Now, I've been reading Tolkien's works since I was in junior high and have always loved them, but there was just something special about reading this book to my son as he lay on his tummy on the bed, pouring over the maps with a faraway look on his face.

When we read the last sentences, "He drew a deep breath. 'Well, I'm back,' he said"; we both drew a deep breath. It was one of those moments. I had planned for a long while to give Sam my copy of the Red book when we finished reading. When I told him that I wanted him to have the book for his own, he protested. "No, Mom. It's your favorite." I reminded him that I still had my original trilogy, given to me by my parents when I graduated from high school. I told him that I wanted him to have it and read it to his children someday. He finally accepted the gift and then, with an impish grin and a sparkle in his eye he broke the intensity of "the moment" by asking, "Can I have the bookmark, too?"