Owl Moon

It was late one winter night when Pa and I went owling...

Jane Yolen died last week.

When my boys were small, we used to go to the library every week to stock up on books we’d read before bed each night. It was my favorite time of day, post-bath, post-day, easing into sleep. My oldest loved all kinds of books, about all kinds of things; he was an early reader and remains the kind of egghead bookworm I am. His younger brother has always been more kinetic, less inclined to just sitting and listening. He liked bedtime stories because we cuddled as much as for the tales.

Perhaps because his brother was so very verbal (he is now a lawyer), Miles didn’t say much in words as a baby. He didn’t say many words at all until he was nearly two, at which point he began speaking in full sentences.

What he did speak was Bird. All kinds of bird languages, whistles and tweets and coos. They spoke back, endlessly. He had a special love for Great Horned Owls, which we sometimes saw at certain times of year.

When I found Owl Moon by Jane Yolen at the library one week, I knew he would love it. It’s the story of a girl who goes owling with her father one winter night. The art is beautiful, but it’s the cadence of the words that makes it so very magical. I can recite entire pages from memory. I was right that he loved it. He wanted to hear it every night, wanted to check it out again every single week, over and over and over. I bought him a copy for Christmas, and it was one of his most beloved possessions. I am quite sure he still has a copy.

I never see or hear a Great Horned Owl without thinking of those halcyon days of cuddling with my small boys on a bed, feeling their hot limbs against mine, the smell of their hair in my nose. I like to think I knew then how sweetly perfect those nights were, but I do now, for sure.

Fare thee well, Jane Yolen, and thank you for sharing your vast gifts.