How Aunt Sylvia loved books!
They filled her house, and on
my visits I'd find them scattered
on every available surface.
Bookshelves, tables, nightstands,
radiator covers. Stacks of books
she'd already read. Stacks waiting
to be read. Romances. Historical fiction.
Literary novels. Biographies.
You could go into any room
and find books there. Paperbacks,
hardcovers. Magazines, too.
She gave me copies of the classics
for my birthdays. Huck Finn.
Tom Sawyer. Winnie the Pooh.
Walden. Hoping, I guess, I'd become
a reader, too. A book lover. A fan
of stories. And poems. (She gave me
a copy of Robert Louis Stevenson's
A Child's Garden of Verses.)
Years later, I still have those books
on my shelves, and looking at them
I realize it wasn't just the books
she gave me but her love of
books that is the gift that endures,
that brings me back to books
again ... and again.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment