A story of a family bigger than we know, we enter and see a mother reading to her son. All the time she would read and they began to talk, and grow. She woul read to him in the park or before he went to bed. On his birthdays or when he got his first car. All of thier lives she would read, at all the events one could run into, as life does, wedding and run-away husbands. Friendships to personal struggles, Big cities, and big ranches and the time of life was abundant ! Together through this the family grew, there were new husbands and old wifes, babbies were born and friends died. Mother would read to all of them as a group or one-by-one. They would laugh and they would cry, they would fight and forgive. She would read them all the medaphores from the books as they learned, lived, loved. Oh ! how they lived, so full of live from mother's books !But what still remained was the mother, the son, reading to each other, a book.
As time whent on and the books became many, the life experiences, the medaphorical meanings in the books would show themselfs time and time again in the eye's of the mother and son. As time moved on, so did their ages. The son would read to his mother as she rock back and forth in her oak chair. She would rock back and forth with a big smile on her face as her son read page after page. They would talk to each other about who died, who had been born, friends of old, and friends just entering through the door. The years passed as she rock in her oak chair, listening now to her son. Then one day as the son read to his mother as she sat there smiling, the chair stopped rocking. The son paused for a moment, still looking at the page from which he read and listened to the echo creeking from the chair.
The scenes fade to black as the imagies of their lifes pass over like the loose pages of a book slowly blowing in the wind. The son much older now and very full of life, walks along with a big smile, reading a book noticably loud as he rounds the corner and looks up to see his daughter and that look, his mother's eyes.
As time whent on and the books became many, the life experiences, the medaphorical meanings in the books would show themselfs time and time again in the eye's of the mother and son. As time moved on, so did their ages. The son would read to his mother as she rock back and forth in her oak chair. She would rock back and forth with a big smile on her face as her son read page after page. They would talk to each other about who died, who had been born, friends of old, and friends just entering through the door. The years passed as she rock in her oak chair, listening now to her son. Then one day as the son read to his mother as she sat there smiling, the chair stopped rocking. The son paused for a moment, still looking at the page from which he read and listened to the echo creeking from the chair.
The scenes fade to black as the imagies of their lifes pass over like the loose pages of a book slowly blowing in the wind. The son much older now and very full of life, walks along with a big smile, reading a book noticably loud as he rounds the corner and looks up to see his daughter and that look, his mother's eyes.
