For around ten months, my books were in storage. Words, waiting to burst forth and back into my life again, but forced to be patient and restrain themselves within the confines of cardboard cartons. I missed them dearly.
Without getting into the details of how and why such a situation came to pass, these books that I have amassed over the years were in grave danger of being destroyed by water that suddenly began to enter the room in which they were being stored. And for about two months after this came to my notice I wasn’t able to do a thing about it. I didn’t know whether they had been destroyed or not.
Recently I was finally able to get to my books and as I opened each carton with great trepidation, I was able to breathe a huge sigh of relief – not a single book had been damaged!
What a happy day that was!
I immediately removed the books, as well as a couple of small bookshelves, from storage and now these reunited companions sit happily in my bedroom. I must mention here that this isn’t a very practical solution, because the bedroom I speak of is the one which my husband and I have been sharing with our 3 year old son (and most of the attachments that come along with housing a 3 year old son – yup, lego blocks, his books, toys, puzzles etc. etc.) for more than a year now, while we wait for renovation to be completed in the rest of our home. But neither of the other two occupants have complained (so far), mainly I think because they have seen how much joy it has brought me to have these precious old friends surrounding me again. I know for sure that I have been in a much better mood since, especially as the move coincided with me getting out of a very long reading slump.
Most of these aren’t even amongst my most favourite books. But they are all very precious to me, each one for a different reason – either for where it was bought or who gave it to me or what it reminds me of or how I serendipitously read it at just the right time in my life. But more on that in my next post – My Most Precious Books.