How to love a book

The true tell-tale sign that a book is treasured

When I love a book, it’s devoured over and over again. Page corners thumbed and folded, dust-jackets faded from countless reads on sun-soaked couches or blankets in the park. The interior may catch splatters of tea or cookie smudges from being toted around to cafes, bus stops, classes, or even the bathtub. Not that I notice.

I’m too busy revisiting words that once caught me off-guard and nestled into my soul; I like to see if the sentiment still sticks or if maybe I’ve changed. And when I find my younger self, who thought she was so wise, in the messy margin scribbles, I wonder what I’ll think of today’s scribbles a decade from now.

My books tend to have laugh lines too – bits of text here and there that I’ve underlined with a swipe of pen because they amused or moved me and I didn’t want to lose them.

But the true tell-tale sign that a book is treasured is the warped curl of the spine, a result of contorting to suit whatever spot I’ve cozied up in. When that final formality gives way for good, then I can melt into whatever make believe world is at my finger tips and feel at home.

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