Photo credit: Me
Perhaps this is an old, dusty piece of history, forever forgotten until I rescued it from its lonely demise. The dusty bookshelf in the back of the store, stocked full with the crumbling remains of what were once someone’s grandmother’s treasured novels. With words too difficult for their grandchildren, they were discarded into a sea of ‘too-hard-can’t-read’ books, waiting forever to be saved by someone, anyone. Whether it be the shriveled woman looking for the volume she wrote a report on in second grade or I, the girl in pigtails looking to read something with meaning, a rarity on the bookstore shelves of today. Or maybe I seek refuge in a world that is not my own. A different country, a different way of living, a different time. Yes, that’s what I truly believe. I seek refuge in the things that long to be rescued. The deteriorating copy of a book no one from my generation has heard of seeks the same validation that I seek from it. The book and I, I believe that we are meant to be.
