They sit open on a table. They almost fall over in hasty piles. They line up on shelves as straight and true as Marines.
Their names are demurely displayed if you draw close enough to inquire.
They peer out from every nook and cranny. They almost explode from a basket. Step on a book. Trip on a book. Knock over a book. Try to find the book you are currently reading. (Good luck.)
Raise the lamp to just the right level with a couple of coffee table types. (Rare but we got ‘em.) Prop the door open on a windy day. The cheap paperbacks are perfect coasters.
Every color in The Big Book of Impressionism. (It was a gift.) But heavy on the reds, blues, blacks and whites. Taller than a can of Tinker Toys. Smaller than a baby’s thumb. Some leave. Some stay. Our hoard grows bigger every day.
Books in every room. Two rooms just for books. More interesting than television. Longer lasting than a movie. Easier to handle than real life.
We love them old and new. Wouldn’t know what to do without ‘em. Can’t conceive of a room without books, never mind a whole house. (Someone told us that such places do exist, We think it was just to scare us.)
And now we can’t wait for more to be written. So, now we write books, too.
We are books and books are us.