Books

Books Books line the shelves in the living room, the bookcase in the hall, the cubbyholes in my desk. They lie on the coffee table, stacked on end tables, and on bedside tables. At least it used to be like that before I had to move. I miss my books, only a few left. I had read all of them, some more than once, and some were a bit ragged. But I got pleasure from there just being there where I could see them. I don’t buy books much now. I get them from the library. Somehow it isn’t the same reading somebody else’s books. There’s no ownership involved, no sense of coming back to it and savoring it all over again.