My brother was four years older than me. By the time I turned four, I was upset that my brother could read but I couldn't. With a1 to read a book like my brother, I begged: "Teach me to read，Mom! Please, please?!" Finally, Mom found some time after lunch2reading lessons, and soon after, my fifth birthday, I was reading.
My father was a great storyteller3he didn't have the time in the evening to read to me because he had to work three jobs to feed4family. So my brother and I longed for every Sunday morning when my father told stories about his5at his early age. He told us that he always volunteered to help with6, because he liked to taste the food that was made by his mom. I seemed to7the soup made by my grandma and see the funny picture of my father making salad, putting a piece into his mouth8when no one was looking." I was always9at that time as that time as I needed food to grow taller." he explained humorously. Hearing my father's stories made me closer to the books and the stories they held.
One Saturday afternoon we walked two blocks to the small10in our neighborhood, where I met Mrs. Schwartz the librarian. My dad11forms about my information for a card, then he said, "You are seven now. You're12enough to walk to the library yourself." So l did—almost every afternoon. Some days Mrs. Schwartz read books aloud to a group of children und sometimes she taught us13to choose books properly from the shelves. Book: became my companies who were my comfort when I felt lonely.
Yes, reading14my life a lot it helped me study better so I could become a teacher and share my love of reading with my15in the school. And inside my head, I can still hear the voices of my mother, father, and Mrs. Schwartz, which are with me every time I open the first page of a new book.
