I placed a book at the bottom of my daughter’s bed tonight. I hadn’t planned to. We’d been reading and soon she be sleeping. The book needed a place to rest too and the bottom of the bed seemed right. It really was. I immediately reviewed the placement favourably. I realised I couldn’t think of a more necessary thing to keep at the bottom of a bed. It was right where a cat might lay on plenty of other beds. This was actually a book about a cat, now that I mention it. Perhaps a book at the bottom of the bed says something about the girl asleep at the top, I thought. Books must be pretty significant in one’s life in they wind up in one’s bed. My daughter’s a reader. Already. Will she grow up to be well read? Tomorrow morning I’ll be happy with well slept. I wonder if subconsciously I placed the book there as a gesture of faith. A mini ritual celebrating the culture we’re creating together as book people. A benediction of sorts to exhort her further on in our bookish way. An exhortation she’s sleeping through, mind you. I wondered which book I’d put at the bottom of my bed… She’s unwell tonight. That’s why she’s on the floor in our room on a thin mattress. She’s not so tall that she’ll kick off her book (like I would mine). But neither is she very short anymore. She keeps getting longer. Her arms, her legs, her conversation. The books get longer. The goodness of it all glimmers through at an unexpected moment. And I’m thankful. I don’t know how many more times she’ll sleep at the foot of our bed. But maybe, if we read well, she’ll keep a book at the bottom of hers for a while yet.