Oh my god.
You guys. This picture book that just came in.
It’s an adorable story about a little “narwhal,” living with a narwhal family under the sea, but take a closer look.
Over the following pages, Kelp struggles to fit in. Kelp is different in so many ways; nothing ever feels fully right. Eventually, by pure chance, Kelp happens to get blown off by a stray ocean current and winds up on the ocean surface, where a remarkable discovery is made.
And despite their nervousness…
Hurray! And then the question:
I’m dead. This book killed me. So much perfectness was never to be survived. Kelp, I love you.
(And you, too.)
And yes, I realize that it could just be a lovely story about a narwhal, not a metaphor for anything bigger, but isn’t that the beauty of all the best sorts of books?