She’s also big on sharing books – she donates most of those that she reads to my sister or me if she thinks we’ll like them, or to local book fairs raising money for charity. She’s much better than me in this respect, as I am a little possessive with my books, especially those I like, and worry, a little, that when I lend them out I’ll never get them back. Selfish, I know. Why have all these books on shelves sitting around collecting dust, as decoration?
I was quite the city nomad in my 20s, and I’ve given away more than I’ve kept over the years – they are incredibly heavy to cart around, and when space is at a premium, well, quite a few somethings have got to go, including books. Somehow, though, the collection manages to grow again, at every new address. I love seeing all those stories lined up on the shelves with their colorful jackets, just waiting to be experienced again, either subtly, as just seeing a certain books spine can bring back the entire story, or the feelings it evokes, or fully, with full rereads in order. A wasteful luxury, probably, but not one I’m likely to give up any time soon.
And there you have it, my mom is more selfless than I in reading and in life, as mom’s are apt to be, and I’m glad she happens to be my particular mother.