Books. I love them and the different roles they’ve played in my life. Even writing these words I’m recalling the spines of books I stared at as a child; the one with dark green fabric and frayed edges, the thick brown book with the deep emboss, and the navy with gold, raised letters. I would cradle them like baby dolls as I rearranged the long shelves of books before I was even ready for the words between the covers. I simply wanted to be near them, knowing at some primal level that they were thick with treasure. I remember story books, the anticipation as I waited for mom to get to the next the page. Her fingers as familiar as my own, the sound of her licking a fingertip to…
Categories: Random