The Life of a Book

I sat there on the shelf, waiting, as the lights of the store finally flickered to brilliant life. Release Day. Below me sat ten of my siblings stacked smartly and tidily on the glistening mahogany table. Above me, a beautifully handwritten sign that read “New Release Staff Recommendations”. I was a recommendation! I had been chosen by the store employees to be propped up with my cover brilliantly displayed. At ten o’clock sharp, the store employee unlocked the door and it did not take long at all. Within a few minutes, a customer came in and stopped right in front of the table, their eyes fixed on me. Their warm, smooth hands cradled me for just a moment before they cracked my spine right there in the middle of the store. Oh how great it felt! I was ready for my new life to begin. A young book - a new book - is meant to be read. Meant to be touched and smudged and frayed and dogeared and loved. I had my entire life ahead of me and I could not wait. 

The First Reader wasted no time. We went directly from the bookshop to the coffee shop to her bedroom, and by the end of the day, she had touched every single one of my pages. A sense of fulfillment so rich and deep filled me as she stared down at the back cover. I was wanted, then I was needed and now I could only hope to be loved. After all, isn’t that the hope of anything in this world? The First Reader kept me on her bedside table for quite some time (a beautiful Walnut) and I was happy there. For a time, I thought I could have lived there forever. But as a young book, a single reader is never enough, and soon I yearned for warm, human hands to turn my pages once more. I did not have to wait much longer before the First Reader, gave me to another reader. I was gifted to this other reader amongst a stack of others. I was ready to be patient and wait for my time, but I was the first one chosen by this Second Reader. And much like the first, she did not waste time in consuming what I had to offer. She was a bit more hands on, leaving scribbles in my margins and spilling a bit of coffee on my cover, but her touch; her desire to pick me up and spend hours with me filled the void that had so suddenly appeared after the First Reader had set me down for the last time. 

After my last page was turned, the Second Reader put me on a shelf with many other books, a lovely and sturdy Birch, which made me feel welcomed and at home. I sat there, shoulder to shoulder with other books whose pages had been just as loved as mine. Guests would come to the home and kneel down just to read all of our titles, but nobody ever touched me - just looked. I sat on that shelf for a very long time, months - years even. And then, one day, the Second Reader just started removing all of us books from her shelf and placing us in boxes. She closed us up into a darkness so enveloping, that time was snuffed away with it. When the box was finally opened again, I was grabbed by the hands of a stranger - a Third Reader? No. This strangers' hands were cold and uninviting. They grabbed me without any sort of care or understanding and threw me into a crate (Southern Yellow Pine) and piled other books on top of me. I felt my jacket tear at the edges and my corners push in. I was still a young book wasn’t I? People still needed me, right? 

The crate was shoved away in a dark, dank space for some time before I was moved yet again. This time by small hands. Small, curious hands who turned me over, back and forth and shuffled through my pages with a care and wonder that gave me hope again. My Third Reader was a young boy, I could not say how young, but he was slow and meticulous with me. Purposeful and curious in every turn of my pages. After he had finished my final page, I sat on the boy’s small, blue painted cedar bookshelf in his bedroom. From time to time he would revisit me, pick me up and turn my pages. Sometimes he would flip to a random page and take it in for what felt like hours. I felt as the boy’s hands became older and rougher. His once soft, boyish touch became rigid and sure - but always warm and welcoming. I was no longer a young book. I had found my home with this person. My Third Reader eventually stopped picking me up as often, as I had learned happens with Humans. He eventually picked me up less and less until it had been so long since I felt his touch, I had forgotten exactly what it felt like. I sat just like that for longer than I had sat anywhere before, and this is where I assumed I would stay forever. 

A strange thing happened though. The Third Reader did return and he did pick me up again. He did not open my pages, but he took me in his cozy, agreeable hands and carried me. He carried me until we reached a building - one that felt so familiar, like I was back home. He handed me another set of inviting palms which carried me over to a large shelf made of Oak and filled with books. I was placed right in between two other books, on a shelf full of other familiar books - my siblings! Sure these siblings had different covers: some were “NY Times Bestsellers” while others were “Now A Major Motion Picture”, and others were paperback or jacket-less, but they were all a part of me. They all had the same mother and the same spirit and brought a comfort I had longed for ever since my Print Day. Sitting there, underneath the beautifully handwritten sign that read “Used Books”, I felt at peace. I was no longer a new book. I had been wanted, I had been needed and I knew I had truly been loved. An old book - a used book - is meant to be read. Meant to be touched and smudged; frayed and dog eared and held, admired and talked about. I had my entire life ahead of me and I could not wait.