Over the last few weeks, we've been tossing, donating, and packing as we prepare to put our house on the market. Monday, we started on the loft which has DH's work desk and a majority of my book shelves.
I've donated several hundred books already, but there's more I cannot bear to let go. Some because they were gifts. Some because they are first editions signed by the author. Some are out-of-print with the rights so tangled or the estate of the author so uncaring that I know I'll never see those stories again if I part with the tome in my hand.
Then there are those that touched me, where the characters are more real to me than some people I know. Lessa and F'lar. Sun Wolf and Starhawk. Tarma and Kethry. Morgon and Raederle.
Nostalgia takes me as I flip through the pages of their books. And I start to understand just how deep, how ingrained my idea of story dwells within me.
I cry a little and blame it on the dust triggering my allergies. And I promise myself that when I unpack my friends, I'll spend some long afternoons with them again.
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