The Echo of Old Books

by Barbara Davis

It made for a narrow existence, a blur of sameness with little to distinguish one day from the next.

It was how her own life felt, as if she’d been placed in a state of suspension, waiting, breath held, for some unseen shoe to drop. Like an interrupted story or an unresolved chord.

there’s no end to the emotional weight people attach to their stuff.

one party was always more invested than the other, more willing to hand over their power, to make themselves small, as the price for being loved. She’d always been the more willing one. With her parents and her husband.

As with all rare things, regular restorative care is essential. Chronic neglect may result in weakening, warping, or other persistent vulnerabilities.

Books are rib and spine, blood and ink, the stuff of dreams dreamed and lives lived. One page, one day, one journey at a time.

I’m just asking you to keep the door open—and to let me help you carry those bags now and then. No pressure. No strings.”

In the happiest times of my life, I have reached for my books. In the saddest times of my life, my books have reached back.