“What’s wrong, hon?” my husband asks, glancing over at my somber face.
“She died,” is all I can say.
“An author I love.”
“Aww. . . who was it?”
“Amy Krouse Rosenthal. I have most of her books. She was an amazing human being.”
“How’d she die?”
“How old was she?”
“Oh my. . . you’re 51.”
“Yes, I’m 51.”
I’ve been reading Amy’s books to my 3rd graders over the last few days after I told them she was dying of cancer. They love every one of them. Spoon. Exclamation Point. Little Pea. The OK Book. Cookies: Bite Sized Life Lessons and so on. They recognized how her messages are similar. We all have special gifts and we need to use them. We need to discover what our gifts are. It’s okay to be different. We are all OK.
Tomorrow I have to tell them that she passed away. And, I’m sure I will shed a few tears. They’ve seen me do this frequently so it won’t be a shock to them. Usually it’s when I’m reading a book to them. Or just words.
Like it will be tomorrow.
(The words above are from the last page of Amy’s book Textbook Amy Krouse Rosenthal: Not Exactly a Memior.)