The Story of my Pages.

I do not remember when I first was able to see, to feel. My first memory is feeling fresh and new, neatly stacked on a shelf. I remember thinking that to be bought was to be kept, to have someone cherish the ink of my pages, to read the scripture that was printed onto my paper in words unknown to me. It seems silly now, years later, sitting on a shelf not too different from my first. Back then, I excitedly watched as people bustled past me, looking for a story that caught their attention. 

Now, as I watch from the shelf of a section that apparently donned the name “Used Books”, it all seems so slow. That’s not to say I’m ungrateful for the view; I love seeing people go about their lives, flitting from one section to the next, occasionally browsing the small collection of books where I had made home.

I sometimes wonder what they see when their eyes land on me. From what I’ve heard, I’m a fantasy book, but I don’t know past that. I want to know the story I tell, what people see on my pages.

I think I’m about an adventure. Or, I like to think that. I like to imagine that people see themselves in my pages, that they see their faces woven into a story that brings their hearts to a faraway place, somewhere away from dusty shelves and little lives. I’d like to ask what picture I paint in their minds, to learn what lies on my coffee-stained pages. I want to go on adventures with them. 

But I am a book. I have no mouth or hands to speak with. But I suppose that doesn't matter much. I have no eyes either, yet I see. I have no brain, yet I think. I wonder if other books see as I do, and think like me?

I feel too. I feel as calloused hands pick me from the shelf. I used to get excited at this, but I quickly learned that the staff don’t take me home. I feel the man stick something bright orange to me. I’ve seen this before, on other books. It means that I am “on-sale”, something that means I am more likely to be brought home.

Home comes in the form of a young girl. She picks me up with soft hands with chipped nails, looking me over curiously with big brown eyes, a similar shade to the black coffee that stains my pages. Her hair is black and curly, framing her dark tan face that’s dusted with freckles. She looks quite young but is apparently old enough to be on her own at the store, fishing for cash in her pockets as she sets me in front of the cashier.

I quickly learned that her name was Ana. She brings me to a lively and cramped house. As she reads my pages, I look around at my new home. Ana has a large family, people flitting in and out of rooms, children that play together, and parents with deep lines along their faces. They seem to all care about Ana, but they often don’t show it. I’m happy to keep her company, enjoying her gentle quiet, her soft eyes as they soak in the ink of my story. 

It’s different from my previous owner. A pale man with a tired face who read me once and shelved me to collect dust. He had no bustling family to keep me company, only him. Occasionally others would visit, but they would never stay for long. He didn't stay for long either, though I don’t think leaving was his choice. He packed me in a box and when it opened, new hands lifted me to a shelf in that store. His apartment was cold compared to the packed house I live in now. I think I like it here.

I especially like seeing how things change over time. I see as Ana grows, watching from the shelf in her room, occasionally brought down to be read again. I see as she happily twirls in front of the mirror, the large and fluffy pink dress twirling with her. I believe it’s for her birthday, though this birthday keeps being called her quinceanera, so that must mean it’s a special birthday. I can hear music playing outside of her room that night, laughter, and conversation floating in the air. It sounds so happy. I’m happy for her.

The happiness is broken a couple weeks later by hushed conversations. Ana is saying things to her parents that I can’t understand. She cries as she speaks. It feels heavy, secret. It gets lighter when her parents hug her tightly and tell her that they love her no matter what, like a burden being shared to ease the weight of it. I watch it all from my shelf. I wish I had arms like them so that I could hug her too.

It’s years before she cries like that again. I get packed away into a box, fearing the worst. Another store, another cold shelf. I can hear her crying, and, this time, her family cries harder, little siblings hugging her and begging her to stay. I would have begged with them if I could. Eventually, I’m packed into the back of a car, the feeling painstakingly familiar.

But when I am taken out, it is by her hands. I am set back on the same shelf, though it is in a new room. If I could, I would have cried with relief. I am happy to be nestled on a familiar shelf, watching as Ana gets used to the unfamiliar room.

Over the years, she moves more. But I go with her. I watch as she graduates and meets a nice woman with fiery red hair, going by the name Lori. I get to know that woman as Ana’s girlfriend, then as Ana’s fiance, and finally as her wife. They seem happy. I still get taken down from my shelf to be read, but not as much as before. It’s fine with me. I am old, my pages bent slightly. I am perfectly content to just watch.

One day, a new person comes. She’s young, younger than Ana was when we met. Small and fragile, little fingers that grab at things and little feet that patter softly against the floor as she stumbles around like a tiny drunk. She giggles and mispronounces words, learning new ones every day. Her hair is frizzy and blonde, framing pale skin and rosy cheeks. Her name is Luna, slipping off Ana’s lips with love. 

I feel Ana’s finger curl around my spine after a long time of being left in place. She sits down on the bed where Luna lays, clearly too hyper to sleep, opens my pages, and reads. She reads out loud the words that I have pondered on for so long. For the first time, I hear my story.

I was right. My words tell a story of adventure, of friends and dragons and magic. My words reflect my family, Luna listening excitedly every night. I hold onto every word as Ana reads out my heart, the ink that’s eluded me for so long, the story that I tell. 

I know now, as I sit on a shelf in Luna’s room, what my family sees when they look at me. I finally know what story I have to tell.