I Never Learned To Read

I use my Thesaurus to prop a door open. As a desk when I write poetry outside. To lift a two-year-old high enough to reach the table. You should open it, my eight-year-old grandson suggests. Why? It might have words in it and pictures and stuff. I show him there are no pictures. “I never learned to read,” I tell him. Waiting for his logical mind to click in. He knows that I write. He gives me a hug. “I will teach you, Grandma.” I cannot wait to show him how fast I can learn.