Connected
I am masked and waiting in line, reading a book,
when the XFinity man, also masked, asks me about my book.
He reads to his daughter every night, he says,
is always looking for titles.
We talk about the drawing on the cover,
the Black girl, feet on desk, pen in hand, serious look on face.
She is 12, likes to bake cupcakes, has a friend named Trevor.
Her birth dad is serving time for a murder he didn’t commit.
Her mom has deep-seated anger toward this man.
The girl writes him letters and dreams of hugging him when his innocence is proved.
I teach elementary reading, I say, but admit to loving YA literature.
The stories right there on the page nestled into grown-up themes.
XFinity man tells me he is reading Harry Potter to his daughter;
I don’t discourage Harry, but offer up books by Woodson, the Katie Woo series,
even Junie B.
He tells me she will start kindergarten soon in New Britain.
We both know it will be unlike any kindergarten year ever seen before.
He tells me she can read high frequency words.
I tell him about labeling the house – post-its or index cards – bed, door, window.
He likes this idea –
she will be able to read her world.
She sounds advanced, I say.
No mask can contain his pride; it’s in his eyes.
How amazing it is to learn to read, we say.
Lines and circles sucked in by synapses, then turned into meaning.
Our interaction lasts less than five minutes,
but takes us to a world beyond Xfinity.
I drive away and think about dads reading to their little girls,
making the world a warmer place thanks to stories of heroes, lovers, and saints.
Patti Hoppin
Patti Hoppin | Read the World | This poem was inspired by a conversation one summer afternoon with a man working in the Xfinity store in West Hartford.