An enchantingly cozy world of window seats, trellises and rose-patterned curtains is Tom’s little grandmother’s physical world, and her home’s familiar surroundings help comfort her deteriorating brain. Soft watercolors and ink create an ordered loveliness, which complement the equally gentle rhyming couplets. Her mental condition worsens, so on the last pages, she is living with her son’s family, no longer able to live at home: “My little grandmother lives with me now. She doesn’t know why and she doesn’t know how. She can’t find her cat, and she loses her way”—yet she feels safe, because she has Tom, who looks like Roy, her beloved son when he was a boy, “so she thinks she will stay.” Tom describes his relationship with her in simple descriptive words, evocative of grandmother’s confusion and deepening loss. Though he’s as tall as a grocery-store shopping cart, she isn’t much taller and his confident presence makes all the difference. This is a truly brilliant treatment of memory loss, in which grandmother’s connection with her life is found again and again in little flashes because of her favorite things being close at hand: blue-china teacup, big orange cat and Tom. Worlds of understanding flow from Lindbergh, whose long experience with her own mother’s slow demise enlightens each page with tender reality. (Picture book. 3-5)
