my love affair with books began so long ago i can’t even remember. it seems as though i came out of the womb reading and devouring everything with words. for me reading isn’t a hobby. it’s a necessity.

when i read a book i develop a friendship with the author. i become intimate with the characters. i belong to that place. it’s disappointing to me when the book ends. i hesitate over the last chapter. turn the last few pages so slowly they age in time, turning yellow and crisp on the way. then, when it’s over i feel a certain sadness in the end. it’s like when you’re ten years old and your best friend moves millions of miles away from you. i hate to say goodbye.

this is probably the reason i read books over and over again. the book i’m reading now is 1200 pages and heavy as hell to cart around. and this is my third or fourth time reading it. but it doesn’t matter. to me, it’s like checking in with an old friend.

the boys don’t seem to have developed my love of books though. at least not yet. i keep holding out hope that they’ll “get it” one day. one day it will just click with them and they’ll see all the joy and wonder that lies therein and i won’t have to beat it into them.

but i doubt it. so in the meantime i’m improving my aim.