There is just something about a book; the way the leather cover feels in my hands, the smell of well thumbed pages, the story reread endlessly. My love is a book, you see. His hands, worn and calloused--the years are read in those strong fingers. Weathered, leathery on the outside his cover bespeaks of journeys and music, of laughter and tears. Title page--I share his name and he is dedicated to me. Inside he is a treasure trove of tales oft told, words never changing one time to the next and yet each reading gives new nuance to the past. His spine is cracked and there are a few pages loosened from his binding but the words are ever there, memorized, read and reread, fingers running along the lines until the print fades from fingertip erosion. In the morning light I read of his day, of his dreams. I peruse chapters of memorable quotes and laugh as I read aloud his antics. I hear the music drumming in my soul and the book is alive and breathing as all good books should, indeed, be. No best seller this, more the first edition of a classic, worn, well read, not kept high on some dusty shelf but read daily over coffee, on the kitchen counter of our lives or near where the fire blazes on our heart-h. No reader, he, prefers to hear the stories read out loud in time to the drumbeats that propel him or whispered in the papered leaves in the forest. Caressing an old book, the all of it, the whole full of anticipation; the greeting of an old friend. At night I lie down beside him and as he drifts off, I read of love and tenderness, soothe wrinkled pages of his day, slip in a lovemark at a favored passage and fall sleep, my book in hand, to dream of heroes. |