Wilfrid Gordon Mc Donald Partridge.

This book was given to me from a ‘friend of a friend’ last fall. The description reads: “Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge, a rather small boy, lives next door to a nursing home in which resides Miss Nancy Alison Delacourt Cooper, his favorite friend, because she has four names as well. When Miss Nancy “loses” her memory, the intrepid Wilfrid sets out to find it for her.”

Wilfrid, determined to help Miss Nancy find her memory, does. Yet, in ways we wouldn’t expect.


Today, this gem lives on my bookshelf, surrounded by the precious other few I choose to keep. Books on faith. Books on living. Plenty of non-fiction pieces, and a smattering of chick-lit.

But every few months or so, my eye will wander from across the room to that oddly shaped book on the edge of the shelf. Wilfrid.

Stopping, I’ll grab it, settle in a comfy corner and just read.  A children’s book. Just pages long. Yet, ripe with wisdom. It’s a story whose warmth jumps off the page, and surrounds me.

Sometimes it will bring the long repressed tears to my eyes. Other times it will make me smile, reminiscing on my own childhood, or trips to nursing homes. Each time, it brings me comfort. And a reminder: to be in the moment. To be the child.

I might not be Wilfrid to Miss Nancy. But I sure can be Kate to my Mom.


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