A Little Princess Book

My mother thought it completely foolish of me to buy a hardcover book and then finish it in one night (these were the days before Harry Potter and, besides, we had enough books in our house, in her opinion). But I loved owning this edition with its gorgeous images and, when I gave it to my younger cousins in Singapore, believing myself ready to part with my childhood attachment to a book I wouldn't ever forget, I did mourn its loss, though I was a teenager by then and studying the dead white male canon. I'm an awful person, I know, but when I visited my family in Singapore the year before I graduated from college, I noticed the book on their shelf and asked to see it, and my aunt, noticing how my face lit up, asked if I wanted it back.

"Really? You mean it? Is that OK?"
"Of course, why wouldn't it be?"
"Are you sure? Oh, but I'm awful. I guess I didn't know how much it meant to me. You're so wonderful. What can I give you?"

I forget what I gave them in exchange, but it certainly held no value compared to this book. Not to be too psychoanalytical, but I suppose my reclaiming the book was a silent protest against my mother (and my unconsciously wanting to reconnect with my father, from whom I'd inherited my love of books). I haven't changed much in all these years.