The light in the attic has gone out.

Shel Silverstein died last week.

Many (and perhaps Silverstein himself most of all) would oppose the grandiose title of this article, protesting that a maker of nonsense children's verse is ultimately of very little importance in the great scheme of things.

This may be true.

But I remember that, in my elementary school, Where the Sidewalk Ends was the ONLY book in the school library for which there was a waiting list.

And once your turn finally came, you couldn't help but notice how dilapidated that book was--not in a hard uncracked binding with pages as white and stiff as though they had been starched; oh, no.

That book was WORN, as only constant reading over years by hundreds of delighted children could wear it. Worn down--but never worn out.

In our generation (unlike that of our parents) in which memorization and recitation of poetry was considered a pointless burden, and poetry itself something inflicted on students in high-school (if then), children heard Shel's poetry read aloud not with groans, but with glee...and some even went so far as to learn a few of the shorter poems themselves.

And what poems. From the insanely over-the-top and ridiculous ("True Story") to the wickedly satirical bordering on cynical ("The Little Blue Engine"); from the playfully silly ("The Crocodile's Toothache") to the nearly elegiac ("Forgotten Language"), Shel was a true original, a bringer of frivolity and joy. In an age when every fifth-rate hack with a drum machine is described as a "creative genius," Shel really was one.

And as with so many who purport to create only nonsense, Shel had a very serious message which shone through his work. "Listen to the Mustn'ts" and "Come In" tell the true tale of what he was about. His work encouraged OUR creativity, validated our dreams, and taught us how precious our childhoods were, even while we were experiencing them. He gave us laughter while we were children, and brought the memories of that laughter and happy time back when we were adults. My copies of his work rest on a special shelf, between my collected Shakespeare and Robert Frost. Not a judgment of aesthetic or artistic value, but rather one of emotion--these three poets have the power to move me as do no others.

Do you remember?

Do you recall being eaten by a Boa Constrictor? Will you play at Hug O'War, or follow My Rules? Did you look at your peanut-butter sandwich differently after hearing what it did to the king? And did Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout teach you the importance of emptying the trash?

Are you a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hoper, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer?

I was and still am--and in some small way it's because of Shel Silverstein.

I'll never stop looking for the end of the sidewalk...

...and The Giving Tree will always make me cry.