On Monday, I was given this book in Cambridge by my friend Richard Russell. On Tuesday, I began reading it at a doctor's office in Waltham. On Wednesday, I finished it at a cafe in New York. Now, my mind doubles back and forth and back again as I ponder to whom I should send copies: Frederick of Boston, the charming scholar of Venice, the place where this book was set? Christy of Juneau, who blogs so magnificently about her son, who like the author's son, lives with cerebral palsy? My children, who, each in their own way, have their lives defined by their children? Everyone in the world? Maybe.