Breathe it in, the smell of a paperback book

I love bookshelves. I finally got one for my room so my favorite worlds and characters aren't shut up behind the doors of my tv stand, crammed in the dark, out of sight, out of mind. Now all the books I have here are arranged, stacked, lined, and angled, their colors and titles displayed and eyeing me every time I walk by. Harry Potter, my England journals, Green Rider, Tom Sawyer, Middlemarch, Shannara, The Queen of Darkness, Ginny Gordon and the Mystery of the Old Barn, The Chronicles of Narnia, Scarlet Pimpernel, Poems of the Sea. About 20 bookmarks hanging from on top or under books, in them or between them, tassles dangling, some grouped so their ornaments clink together like windchimes, others solitary beacons asking to be taken along on whatever journey I choose to undertake, this time. Next time could be different.

I need more bookshelves. Even the books I have here with me don't fit on the one. And back home, prisoners in my parent's garage, are the rest of my books, stashed in 7 or so Washington Apple boxes. Someday the shapers of my childhood will be united in one place, where I can slip out one from the others and flip it open to inhale the deep breath of crisp, inked paper, new and exciting and a mystery as to what's inside, or an old and familiar smell of paper well loved and used, pages turned countless times in joy and anticipation. For now I will content myself with the one bookshelf and my small supply of wonderfully smelling books.