with books. and it started when I was little. Naptime stories. and then in school, when we would all be gathered around the teacher as she sat in the middle of the circle and read, lights low, words flowing out like honey, sticking me right to the edge of her chair. I would even go home and practice holding a book like she did, between my thumb and pinky, facing away from me showing it to the class. I loved the library. a treat. something about the way old books smell, when they’ve been handled, and searched through and put back on the shelf with the other books. And new books, almost as good, before all that happens. the smell of ink and paper, and I swear, I think the words themselves have a scent of their own.
I love the weight, the textures, the smells, the look of black letters on cream colored pages, and the feel of pages themselves, full of ideas. of adventure. and I love when I find that one book, that you ease into, and savor, feel the pull of. I love knowing that no matter what else is happening in the world around me, I have that book that I can’t wait to get back to. to turn one more page, hoping it never ends.