When my husband returned,
he was confused as to why I was still looking.
He asked if it was valuable.
And that was all that mattered, the value of the book. I laughed in his face.
"Of course it is." I wanted to slap him. "To me."
"There is no monetary value to it, probably.
"But that hardly matters. It's what it means to me.
"It's more than just a book,
"Though I suppose they all are,
"It's my childhood. It's something special."
And the computer geek in my husband shrugged his shoulders
and retired to the kitchen.
"It's like if I hid your Playstation. No,
"Like if I hid your memory card thing,
"The one with all your saved games
"from when you were a kid. All that time
"lost." He didn't appreciate the empty threat.
"I don't know how you don't see it,
"How you don't see what it means.
"A book isn't just a book,
"It's a living thing, it has a heart and soul,
"It thinks and it exists
"and it feels,
"because when we aren't reading it, it gets sad
"because books are meant to be enjoyed.
"How dare we leave them alone and abandoned?
"They deserve better than that
"and yet they'll still share their stories with us.
"They feel that loneliness and they are still willing to share.
"Is that not magical? Is that not so utterly brilliant?"