Living On Borrowed Books
My family and I have recently moved (as in last week; our entire garage is filled to the brim with, oh my goodness, So. Much. Stuff). We’ve been working room by room to unpack and organize, though there are still little piles in each room. Don’t get me started on the boxes, either in the house or in the garage.
My books remain packed; the bookcases where they’ve resided in various organizational constructs over the past 12 years are empty. It’s so sad. And I feel badly for my books as I pass them going in and out of the basement. Bless their hearts, they don’t deserve to be shut up tight in those darn paper boxes. Until I have the time and motivation (the real key) to unpack and shelve them, I’m living on borrowed books: library books.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the library. Absolutely love it. One of my favorite places to go, and I’m so very thankful my mother took my brother and I to the children’s area every other Saturday. I’m lucky enough to work across the street from the library now, where the employees know me by name and aren’t surprised when my library holds come in at one time. [I shouldn't be surprised either, but I always am.]
So, I must offer a great big THANK YOU to all the librarians out there who’ve kept me high on the written word while my brain is numb and my body is tired.
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