Five minutes ago.
I am separating our books. We have been together for 12 years. We are both avid readers. We both had book collections. I had lots of shelves (IKEA!). I cleared books to make room for hers. Over the years our books intermingled on the shelves.
Amazon got a lot of business from us. So did the local used book stores. We saw ‘No Country for Old Men’ and read Cormac McCarthy’s book, weird punctuation and all. She wanted to read more. I got her everything he’d written up to that point for her birthday.
We had more books, but our youngest dog destroyed over a shelf’s worth.
She reads more than I do. She can read with the television on. They say that’s one of the differences between men and women. Reading is meditation for me. Sometimes I get into a book and want to take the ride straight through. I write. I savor words. Not that she doesn’t.
She always retains more than I do, even when she WAS watching television at the same time she was reading.
Saturday and Sunday mornings were spent reading and drinking coffee in bed, surrounded by the menagerie we affectionately referred to as ‘The Nature Channel’.
She can walk away from a book if she isn’t into it. I have a harder time doing that. So I’m more selective in what I read. I made a reading list for 2016 instead of New Year’s resolutions. She’ll go to a bookstore and just look at books, read the blurbs, looking for something interesting. And she always finds great stuff. I have a master plan that includes reading some books a second or third time.
She’s introduced me to so many new authors. I’m leaving her all the Michael Chabon, except for the book she gave me – at the end. Chabon’s comic book super hero. I haven’t been able to bring myself to read it yet.
I separate my books into keepers or donations to a book bank. As I pull volumes from the shelves I find old bookmarks and faded receipts.
I find a half-dozen Valentines, and several Anniversary cards pressed between the books.
I’m only half done.