At the end of the mezzanine, waiting for the elevator with my cart of books, I reach and pull a book off. Open it. Careful. To where I was last when I was reading my copy at home.
"I am 11.
I play clarinet with my friend Brody and we tap our feet three-quarter time our mouths around the instruments our fingers between the struggle of learning and the dance of music our knees our lives nearly touching."*
Ding and then the swish of elevator door opening. Close the book and put it on the cart, take it down, put it on the shelf.
How many books on shelves have I sipped a bit of beauty from in my morning work? How many people have touched eyes on the very same words, the very same ink. What a particular and anonymous sharing.
[*from the chronology of water - lidia yuknavitch.]
Simply no one
21 hours ago