Fourteen Boxes of Books Near the Walls
I packed my first box for this move today. No, he hasn’t gotten a solid job offer yet, so therefore we don’t know where we’re moving to. But I’ve held off the urge to pack for this long. I held it in longer than Just’In did; he packed the majority of the office stuff (the file cabinet, the books in that room, most of the stuff on his ghetto cinder-block shelf) weeks ago, just because he was bored. And yet he’d been telling me all that time not to start packing until he got that job.
I packed books today. I did twelve boxes, and there are still whole shelves full of books that I haven’t touched. Just’In has catalogued our books (another project brought on by boredom) and he counted eight hundred; we’ve bought more since then. And they’re all books that interest us, that we’ve picked out by hand. The ones we read and don’t like we trade for other books in various used bookstores, so we like almost all the books we have.
The exceptions are the classics that we just ought to have. Eventually, we’ll have people asking us whether we have this book to read for school or that book. My family already does ask; they call every once in awhile about school-assigned books. We’ll eventually own Animal Farm and Lord of the Flies, two classics I hate just because I’ve covered them in too many different classes. And there will always be books that we just don’t own. We can never have all the books in the world. And there will always be books that we want. The point is to keep reading them.