Just before I started school, I went missing whilst shopping with my mum. Frantic and distraught, she remembered my favourite place in town. As she ran towards the library with my pushchair, she muttered prayers that I would be there, unable to contemplate the alternative. Sat with a book in the children's section, I was oblivious to the interest gathering about the seemingly parentless child. Quite rightly, told off for escaping, but only once her relief subsided, she plonked me back into my pushchair, and left the whispers and judging stares behind. Even then I must have known the power of books.
Now, I create books. I struggle to read currently, due to my health, but I am working on this and still have a climbing pile beside my bed of 'to reads'. My eclectic vintage finds, never really bought for their titles, but more their age, or the inscription within, bring me both joy and curiosity. When I hold one in my hands, I feel energy from those musty hard backs - the emotions they have absorbed or joy they evoked, not just from their story within, but from the life each and every book has lived. Because every book has a history of its own aside from the words it holds inside. I wonder, where my books live and with who? Are they loved or will they be discarded? Perhaps sat in someone else’s ‘to read’ pile or wrapped up as a gift.
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