I know you can’t read. I know, when I show you this, you’ll do what you always do with books. Make that face. Ponder, or appear to. You wanted us to think you were smart. More charitably, you wanted us entertained—would tell us what was in there. The Rainmaker, you said, John Grisham, a man who controls the weather. At various points he loses that control, and there are droughts; there are cracks in the ground, and when he regained the spirit—it was a spirit, you said—there were a million micro-canals. The fissures came irrigated, such, for a moment, it seemed the whole earth was a jigsaw solved, the pieces floating atop the water. There was no water without the man, after a point. You wouldn’t read to us, not at length. It was always a summary. One good line. Wouldn’t let us look at the books, even—or handle them. Costed you too much money. We’d damage them. Repairs cost too much money. Or there was no one could do the repairs. It would change. The stories would change or the lines would be altered. You’d hold it over our heads. A Man in Full, for instance, Tom Wolfe, held aloft and all our hands grasping. It was a smile on your face, but I don’t think mean. I don’t think cruel. Think—it was good to have something to want in the same room. For you to be the vessel of its deliverance. Come to find they were our grandaddy’s books, inscribed. Come to suspect—though I’d never say it—you were our father. Made us. This is me telling you I know. Show you this website. I’ll be standing there and my brothers behind. Maybe you can spell your own name.