A Page From My Book

She doesn’t hold me like she used to.

Maybe you think I’m being dramatic. Have you heard the saying “put yourself in their shoes”? Well put yourselves in my jacket and you will then grasp my “dramatic” introduction.

It all starts with a word. A letter even. That's how I came to be. The next thing I knew, I was on my way to what would hopefully be my forever shelf. It was exciting, you know? Starting fresh, turning a new page. At least that’s what I was told. Still, I imagined it was going to be everything I’ve dreamed of, maybe even more, to feel palms, fingers rustling through my pages, devouring everything I have to offer.

Oh boy, was I wrong. Perhaps you said out loud “I can’t wait to get my hands on that book!”. Yea, okay. Buy it, borrow it, thrift it, watch it collect dust. Oh, I’m sorry, was that too aggressive? No more Mr. Nice Pages. The optimism left as soon as she stopped picking me up.

What do I do then, you ask? What can I do? I can’t read myself, can I? I sit on the shelf waiting to be opened, waiting to be coddled and occasionally feel the not so sanitary wet finger on my corners…Ugh. Still trying to win my case on the latter.

It’s not like she can’t see me. She sees me, and I see her. When she comes home, at 6:30pm, I can hear her kick off her shoes in the hall, her groan of exhaustion, and finally that vicious crash to the couch, as I quietly watch. You would think that after a full day of sitting in front of a screen, the last thing she would want is to stare at another for the next hour or so.

But Olive does it anyway.

At the printing house, they prepare you for your one and only job. Like soldiers, we nervously hear the sergeant say, “you’re doing it for all the ones who have never been sold, read, or held!”. It was my dream. I made it. It happened.

There will always be others who will squish you down with their heavy, negative words. “They will read you once and forget you. You’ll be sent to thrift stores and libraries when they’re tired of you. You’ll be replaced by the finest gadgets, whozits, and bobbits!”. Okay, sure Mr. I’m just a book filled with different ways you can cook an egg.

I don’t know. I thought I would be different. We all think we’re special I guess...Hold the ribbon, I am though. I’m not your average type of black on white. It only took two days until I was under Olive’s beautiful green eyes. What a rush! Your panels are opened, pages are flipped through, and fully scrutinized. But now…it’s already been a year since she held me.

Of course, this doesn’t mean I’m never read. I’m well read, okay? Well, sort of.

Every now and then, Olive will have others over. She puts on her special playlist that plays on a bluetooth record player. (Yea I know what bluetooth is.) When I hear the vinyl crackling and the music playing softly in the u-shaped kitchen, I know exactly what it means.

As Olive curls her dark, pin-straight hair, I dust off and make sure I look attractive as well. “You can’t judge a book by its cover” is the stupidest lie I’ve ever heard. Who do you think came up with that? We had to get your attention somehow.

The bell rings and Olive opens the door. Who will it be? Sarah? Fay? Gosh, I hope so. They are excellent readers. Every time they come over they read a couple pages, use their brains, take out their hand-made bookmarks and place it in my gutter. (I hope you know your book terminology. If not, go to the library and research. Anything but the inter web.) That means no dog ears! I thank the book heavens.

My daydreaming soon gets interrupted. I hear Stacy. She’s Olive’s best friend. That girl always has a drink in her hand. It’s as if her life depends on it. And she has to flip through me EVERY time she comes over.

The girl with the frosted tips enters the apartment and chats with Olive for a minute or two in the kitchen. Good, stay there. But she doesn’t. As soon as she sees her chance, she heads in the direction of the perfectly kept shelf where I stand.

Don’t pick me up, please don’t pick me up!

And she picks me up. Great, I knew it. I have to face the fact that Stacy is obsessed with me and I totally get it. But she’s no Olive. She sits herself on the couch, one hand with a tall drink, the other with me. At least have the decency to put the drink down woman! It truly feels like an eternity, but it is only a matter of seconds until…Slam! Thud! There I go onto the coffee table. By the way, why does Olive call it a coffee table if she just drinks strawberry Nesquik and green tea? I don’t know. But it’s not any better than a shelf, I’ll tell you that.

I think Olive has the hearing of a hunting dog, because as soon as “bestie” puts me down, she comes in. She knows how to deal with her. As she starts nonchalantly talking to her, trying her best to not make Stacy sense that she is a rude guest, she grabs me. I count 11 seconds. Yes, that is simply the time it takes to walk from the coffee table to the shelf, but it doesn’t matter. I feel her heart beat as she talks to whatever her name is. Thump, thump.

It’s impressive, you know? How humans can fall in love with a book, a series, a romance novel, and show that compassion through endless nights of reading, tightly hugging leather bound stories to their chest. Can a book love a human back?

I’ll let you answer that. But trust me, I won’t forget those 11 seconds she held me close to her chest. Perhaps that is the place where we all belong.