When I was younger, reading meant my sisters. Of course, as accustomed to a child newly introduced to literature, I would still spend hours alone poring over Harry Potter or Warrior Cats on the living room couch; but the best kind of reading was when my four younger siblings were by my side, close together as we shared the priceless experience of a story. 

My earliest memory of this reading took place on the carpet of my childhood bedroom. The room was small and painted bright blue, complete with a bunk bed and a large, outdated dresser. The five of us were curled around my dad, laying on our stomachs in a circle of warm light from the wooden desk, a colorful Berenstain Bears paperback open in front of us. The carpet was uncomfortable, full of pencil shavings and stained with Crayola markers, so the littlest of my sisters laid on blankets or our backs. We had finished dinner and the sky had grown dark, the navy curtains had been drawn, all of our small bodies bathed and teeth brushed. Reading was always the last step in our evening routine before the day finally came to a close. 

On nights like these, when we were lucky, our dad would read a story to all five of us on the floor. After bickering over several options, we piled around him and listened to his tired voice dutifully narrate Brother Bear and Sister Bear’s adventures. My dad would have us take turns reading every other page, helping us when we stumbled on a tricky word or got distracted by the illustrations. Sometimes, we would find excessive joy in correcting our father when his dreariness led him to skim over an adjective or two, and we would burst into giggles. I remember the soft light tempting me to close my eyes and the therapeutic clang of my mother washing dishes before I was eventually lifted into my bunk bed and I slept, dreaming of those stories that I shared with my sisters. 

Now that we have grown up, my sisters and I no longer have these moments on the bedroom carpet with my father. Instead, we read our own, thicker novels that teach us much more about the world than the Berenstain Bears ever could. However, we still find ways to experience books together. We whisper about our favorite characters when we lie awake at night; we laugh about our narrative comedies over the dinner table; we mourn the tragedies in our novels together. Although we no longer read together on the bedroom carpet, my siblings and I continue to share our favorite stories. 

This connection that early reading has provided my family has heavily influenced what reading means to me over the years. From the very beginning, it was a way to connect – a way to share experiences, a way to spread knowledge, a way to bond through emotions and thoughts. As we continue to grow up, reading has allowed my sisters and I to not only learn from literature, but also learn from each other.