The Love Affair

Books.

I love them.

I have many, many books.

But I had to get rid of some.

See, since we’re military, we only get a certain amount of weight to move with. If we go over that, we pay. Books tend to get heavy when they multiply. So I knew that some had to find a new home.

And this pained me.

“Just get rid of the ones you haven’t read in awhile,” Tom said over Skype. He doesn’t understand my love for books because the man doesn’t like to read. I know. I don’t understand how a person cannot love reading either.

“I can’t do that! Some of the books that I haven’t read in awhile, I love,” I exclaimed.

Tom rolled his eyes. “You can’t love them all.”

“I do!”

I made it my goal to get rid of at least ten books. Yes, it’s a small number. But still. It was a beginning. Plus, the base library was accepting donations since they were having a big book sale.

I stood in front of my bookshelf. It was like my books were all, “Don’t get rid of me!” I felt almost guilty as I started placing some in my box. I almost wanted to write to the author of the book and say, “You’re a fabulous writer; I’m just running out of weight.” And space. My bookshelf is bursting with books.

I managed to find TWELVE books to get rid of.

I proudly told Tom on Skype and showed him the bookshelf.

“Um,” he said. “It looks basically the same.”

“What do you mean? I got rid of TWELVE books!”

“You can hardly tell.”

“Sure you can! Remember how two books were on top of this row? Now there is only one book. Go me.”

“I’d be more impressed if you got rid of fifty books,” Tom said.

FIFTY!

“I got rid of TWELVE and I’m proud of myself,” I answered, lifting my chin high.

“Try fifty and get back to me.”

That never happened. I did find one more book I felt I could part with (THIRTEEN!) and then I headed for the library.

I gripped the box of books to my chest like they were my children and walked in. I found a worker and said that I had books for donation. Her face lit up. “Fabulous!” She started to paw through them. I guess I could have left, but I wanted to make sure she’d treat them well. It pains me when I see abused books. Like when people fold down the corner of a page to keep their spot? I actually wince and want to offer to buy them a bookmark.

“These are all wonderful,” she mumbled. “Some are even hardback. Actually,” she lifted one up. “I don’t think we have this book. We might put it in circulation for the library.”

That made my heart happy. Imagine, one of my books, from my bookshelf, making it into the library to make hundreds (maybe thousands) of people happy.

“So they’ll be…okay,” I said stupidly.

Since she was a librarian, I think she understood. “They will,” she assured me. “Don’t forget about our book sale coming up.”

And here’s the ironic thing: I may have gotten rid of thirteen books.

But watch me buy thirteen at the book sale.

Books.

They are my weakness. I can’t help it.