“C’mon, they have to have it somewhere!” Michael scanned the shelves as he muttered to himself. “Let’s see… Q, R… S! Okay, now where could it be…” His eyes darted from tome to tome as he nervously tried to find the book he desired. This is the fifth bookstore he’s been to; he knew it was here, now where could it be? He couldn’t find it, that is, until he did. His eyes lit up; there it was! He’d found the book, no, his book. He found the book that had been out of publication for years, the book written by the man he so adored: his grandfather’s magnum opus. He held it in his hands. It was unreal to him that he finally found the one book that his grandfather wrote, or more specifically, dedicated to him.

He took in the cover; this small children’s book, the one he’d been searching for since his grandfather’s death, it was finally with him. The cover depicted Squawks, a blue parrot with eyes as deep as the ocean itself. He opened the book, only to hear a voice behind him. “Excuse me, sir. Have you seen… oh, I guess you have.” A woman stood before him, tears held in her eyes, “I don’t mean to bother you. It’s just that my father— well— he did the illustrations for that book. I’ve been looking for it for what feels like an eternity.” Michael froze. Could it be? Did she know his grandfather? Well, at least her father did. He answered, “Really? My grandfather wrote this book,” he paused, only to immediately add a quick burst of a question, “Did you know him?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t say that I did,”

“But your father did?”

“Well, I guess so. Why?”

“Oh, no reason,”

Michael held the book in his hands. This book was his, wasn’t it? It was his name that this book, no, his grandfather dedicated. Surely he should… No, he couldn’t… The two stood there for quite a long time. They discussed this and that, but they both knew that one of them had to go home without the book, without their beloved’s magnum opus. Michael began to think. He should just let her have it, but why was he so obstinately against it? He had folders upon folders of his grandfather’s drafts; who knows what she had! Maybe there was another way. He couldn’t do it: it was too special. Unless… Michael stopped; he had an idea. “Ma’am,” he began, “How would you feel about seeing if we could make a copy of this book. I’ll take the copy: the words are what’s important to me; you can have the original: The art wouldn’t compare to its copy.”

Her eyes lit up. ‘Twas a deal. Over the next week, the two contacted company after company until one promised to make a carbon copy of the original. By the week’s end, both of them had a book in their hands, but they didn’t stop there. Over the next year they developed more stories, and by January, they had done it: they had made a chapter book. Once they found a publisher, the books started flying off the shelves. Now children once again could hear the story of Squawks. The one bird the two had so deep in their hearts was finally in the minds and hearts of children everywhere.