On Tour

I just finished a book tour. No, not that kind. My own, personal tour of all the books in my house. I wandered from room to room, considering them as they sprawled on the floor of my office, stood neatly between bookends on my desk, and called to me from my To-Be-Read windowsill.

I touched the spines of the dozens of books that cover my fireplace mantle, artfully arranged so that the vertical and horizontal groupings alternate and so that there aren't too many beige books in any one pile.

There are books all over the kitchen, most of them cookbooks, but some of them fiction. (Although, I admit, I've been known to treat recipes like fiction.)

There are books in the bathroom with the Lysol and the plunger. There are boxes and boxes of books in the garage. I tenderly bump them with the front end of my car as I pull in.

There are books in various cloth bags, which means I've taken them out of the house to brag about them, and then failed to put them back in their rightful place.

There are books that I will never read. There are books that I've read three times. There are books that beloved friends gave me. That I found by chance. That I bought for a quarter thirty years ago. That I will give to my children's children one day.

So many books, each with a story inside---surrounded by a larger story, the one about how and where and why I did or did not read it.

I thought I was conducting this book tour because I was looking for one particular book. I thought I was seeking a book to highlight here, to lovingly hold up as my first official book "recommendation."

But I was really remembering who I was and where I'd been. As a reader, I have a map of my life---right here, on my shelves.