They are the only ones who are held by me. I am the only one who holds them. Two tattered books with crumbling spines and crinkled pages. Two who sit patiently on the shelf but are filled with anticipation. Two adventures in my room waiting to be unleashing. From my couch I feel their temptation, but Brett just sits and doesn’t feel anything.

Their pages hold life. They send wondrous words into your mind. They spiral up and they spiral down and they tug at the mind with their poetic words and capture your heart with raw emotion and never let you go. This is how they read.

Put one down for a day, they scream louder like a kid on a roller coaster, each wanting to be opened. Read, read, read, the books says when I sit. They remember.
When I am too tired or too busy to read, when I was too little to comprehend their words, then it was mother who read the books. When there are no more words to read. Two lasted despite age. Two who I cherished and will always cherish. Two whose reason is to remember and live.