The Weight of a Book

The weight of a book fills the palm of my hand, threatening me with interest, pushing me to read on about these fairy tales or facts, its worn yellow pages creak like the stairs of a haunted house, and the binding seems to need a chiropractor to straighten up its crooked spine. The glue has long worn down, the string is loose and unfastened, pages have fallen out, and yet I would not have it any other way. A book can tell a story, not only with the words inside, but with its pages. You can see if its owner prefers coffee to tea, prefers bookmarks to dog tagging, and see the evidence of what was done while the book was splayed out on its back, weak pages open to the strength of the outside world. The kindle, or nook, or iPad, they do not compare. They do not inspire me with their Times New Roman font. They do not temp me to read on, by not knowing what the next page will hold. Their simple design has nothing on the intricacy of a book cover, which illustrates the love and hatred it has received, but instead shows me its stoic white plastic. Their paperless design does not make me flip the worn pages, but tap the down arrow, not showing me the corners of a well used book and the relationship between fingers and paper. I want that relationship. One where I can trust that this is here, right in front of me, and trust that it will be for all the years to come. That kind of relationship can only occur between a person and their book, a dog and its owner, and a child and its mother.