Books are gateways-to worlds, ideas, ways of being and of knowing.
Books are people-new friends, old enemies, strangers whose speech we catch in snippets, tantalizing.
And some books take on the patina
of the hearts that know them,
of the hands that smoothed their pages,
of the tears that wet them,
a sea salted by longing for the one who is gone.
As I hold this book, I feel you holding me, caress the little spot you worried with your fingers, feel my heart pierced by the bold angles of your hand leaving messages like bread crumbs marking the way back to you.
As my heart unfurls, reaching out to you,
I speak my gratitude:
For books older than I am.
For the way you live on in the marks on a page.
For the grief that pierces me, open to the world.
For the complicated loving and losing between Mother and daughter.
I am grateful, most of all, for you.
Image of paperbacks lined up on bookshelves from Pixabay on Spark Post.
Rooted Flame and a Deep Wellspring 