Space

We built a wonderful new bookcase, modified Arts & Crafts, and decided we are finished buying books. Books on the shelves are wonderful; books that need to be moved from the shelf, to the shelf, to another room on the shelf, multiply. How could we have found so many books that we need? At one time and another we did, and the books, never leaving home, reflect our past and present interests. They are beguiling to read, challenging to ponder, and in toto, difficult to contemplate. Since we avoid taking them off the shelves unless we’re forced into it, when it was time to return them to order, we behaved in character.
Our first response was mutual denial. “This is your book,” extending a volume toward each other, “I was never interested in this, so you need to find a place for it on the shelves. Your shelves.”
Our second response, as predictable, was to reshelve books, sort books (discover multiple copies of some of our books), rediscover books we had enjoyed reading, wanted to reread, never got around to reading but wanted to. And realize that indeed, somehow let off the shelves, they had expanded and we had more books.
“I have a problem,” I told him.
“That sounds personal.”
Undeterred, as well as unwilling to admit personal culpability for all the books I had needed at various points in the past, I explained that though the new bookcase was full, I still had six sagging stacks of books on the floor. They were categorized, though. “The acupressure and acupuncture.”
“Well, stick it to ‘em.”
Philosophy.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Before I ran out of their space, most of the religion books made it on the shelf.”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Astronomy. Half on the shelf and half on the floor.”
Instead of telling me to find an answer in the night sky, he did one of the things that makes him endearing. “Tomorrow, let’s go out and buy you another bookcase.”