Old books

Text:

© Grathy
Who did this book belong to? Perhaps it was read by old spotted hands, tired eyes, digesting paragraphs, and now, here it lives, among many other paper orphans.

With its dogeared pages, folded memories of starts, stops and scribbles on the side, it meant something to someone once.

Are they gone? Were these pages unloaded after someone passed away? Excess inventory that was no longer necessary? All the baggage from once alive parents? Stuff that didn’t fit in the moving van? Were they killed because of kindle?

Our little library, a collection of misfits from all walks of life, books stuffed into old bookcases, begging a newcomer to adopt them.

I pull out a paperback. It’s like a first date, and I hope it goes well.  I check the book jacket like somebody does on Tinder, swipe right or swipe left? The picture looks promising, the description sounds like something I would like to read.

But I don’t know. I will give it a go, like I do other books from our small clubhouse library, not knowing where it will take me, or if I will find the journey delightful.

From old hands into mine, another book is delivered. I will cradle it in my lap like a new piece of jewelry, try it on, and see if fits.