When I was seven, I had a best friend.
We would run into the woods and hide out until mom called us for lunch.
I remember once, we found a bird’s nest tucked in a tree branch. I ran home to get sunflower seeds to feed the babies when they hatched. And I left my friend in the woods.
I didn’t know I was different from the other little girls with a best friend of her kind. Instead of pigtails she had pages and a cover in place of curls.
We passed most days in silence and glee and tall, itchy grass. Together, we could go anywhere.
Today I opened a book. The aged, well-loved pages smelled of childhood bliss and took me to the bird’s nest again.
I’ve forgotten her here once more, I’m afraid. Her binding is worn by the dew.
But brush her off lightly I’ll do once again.
And take her with me, my old friend.
And the name of this friend is?
ReplyDeleteP.S. As for the whole being worn by dew bit, Al Mohler says that if you keep coffee beans in your room they'll keep your old books in good condition. And I figured that with your love of old books and coffee that'd be a useful piece of advice. You can thank him later.