Monday, July 6, 2009


The book I am reading is old, faded and reeks of the musty second-hand store in which I bought it. I can smell the dimness of the lights, the dust and the clothes that, in spite of being washed, still have the scent of their previous owners. I can see the yellowy dime romance novels that surrounded this one treasure, the creases in their spines odd next to the lurch of the binding of the one in my hands. The second-hand shop is not my favorite of places to linger. There are still strains of cigarette smoke and the young man with tattoos stares disconcertingly.

But I am home now. Someone is playing Bach on the piano downstairs and the crickets are chirping as dusk falls. A cool breeze pushes a page past my fingers as I reach for my ice water. Still, I can see the place where I bought this book, feel the sweat dripping down my back and hear the traffic in the street outside. The fan is humming above my head and I can feel my hair frizzing in the afternoon heat. It is all so clear, even as I read the words…


Until a line snatches away the fa├žade and the view is clear, oh, so clear. I can see it, truly see it now. I’m no longer in my bedroom, but rather on a boat sailing to unknown lands. I can see the sea stretching on and on, the waves pulling us forward to that thin line that meets the sky. I can hear the wind in the sails and waves smacking together in a splotchy wet sound. I’m off again…

I do so love a good book.

- written in 2006


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