David’s Little Indian by Margaret Wise Brown, illustrated by Remy Charlip
❝ His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do - the best ones. The ones who rise up and say, “I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come.” Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places. This one was sent out by the breath of an accordion, the odd taste of champagne in summer, and the art of promise-keeping. He lay in my arms and rested. There was an itchy lung for a last cigarette and an immense, magnetic pull toward the basement, for the girl who was his daughter and was writing a book down there that he hope to read one day.
His soul whispered it as I carried him. But there was no Liesel in that house. Not for me, anyway. ❞