The Oxford Dictionary

The bookcase was white; it was white, that is, until the three of us kids took to drawing large prehistoric flowers, swollen bumblebees, and other various monstrosities on its surface. On the shelves of the bookcase sat rows of books that jutted out here and there and none were quite the same size or shape.

My younger sister would pull out the ones with the most girlish drawings on them. She would write her name on their covers and open the book to select her favourite pages to massacre with her signature.
My brother, the eldest of us, would have his own stack of Goosebumps novels towered ten high next to the head of his bed. He would read them one after the other, charmed by each chapter. They were ‘big-boy’ books and not to be touched by anyone but himself.

The books I loved the most were the old ones. No pictures; only words. The books I loved the most were hard covered, clothbound and smelt of old. That, to me, was magic. One book in particular, I would pull out all the time and try to read it. I was convinced it was a spell book, or perhaps instructions on how to reach buried treasure, or a mystical land far, far away. I would put the book in my backpack and take it with me and look at it in hidden places around the house. I wanted nothing else but to know its contents.
Dad would come in to read us a story and I would pull out the old book, its cover a faded orange with gold and blue trimming. I would feel the embossed letters on its spine and front with curiosity. I begged him to read this story, to tell me what was inside; he would look at me and laugh.

“It’s a dictionary, David,” he would say, but I didn’t know what that meant so I persisted.
“Please!” I would plead. With a sigh and a smile Dad would tuck me in to my bunk bed, cuddle into me, open the cover of that mysterious book, and read to me its contents. He read cautiously at first, “Once upon a time…” he would read, then, picking up pace, he would tell me stories about three children: David, Andrew and Claire, and how they would go on the most amazing adventures. I couldn’t believe my ears — the stories were about us! Every night the book provided a new story, a new adventure. It was magical.

It wasn’t until I was much older when I stumbled across the book again. Remembering it with fondness, I pulled its old damaged cover from a different bookcase, in a new house we had moved in to. Now, being able to read and understand what I read I saw the letters on the spine and understood. They read: The Oxford Dictionary. I opened its cover and flicked through the pages from A to Z smiling and knowing what my Dad had done for me all those years ago.