Family Members

When living in an A-frame house, bookshelves are impossible. My books are scattered throughout the house; huddled together on the few available skinny shelves, stacked on the floor upstairs, in boxes downstairs, piled in the middle of the coffee table, and on the stairs, spines facing the living room so I can see them.

Recently, my wife and I tidied the house in preparation for a house guest. (Knowing she will read this, I must make the following disclaimer: I read while she did most of the tidying. It's okay. Really. We have an understanding.) I glanced at her sideways as she approached the staircase.

She paused in consideration. "The staircase is no place for books," she announced.

I told myself to remain calm. It was no big deal. But really, what was she saying!? My books had been residing on the stairs for months and now it was no place for books?

"Where they gonna go?" I tried asking nonchalantly.

"Upstairs."

Upstairs? Upstairs!? Where no one goes to visit? It's Siberia upstairs! This couldn't be happening. My books were being banished.

Internally I felt anguished, saddened. I hung my head, watched my hands sit idly in my lap. I quietly mentioned, "Upstairs is no place for family members."

My wife: "What?"

Louder: "They're members of the family."

I knew how it sounded. I knew it wasn't going to grant my books the freedom to stay where they were, but I couldn't help it. There was no better way for me to describe how I felt about what was happening.

My wife didn't quite see it that way. She, along with an armload of some of my books, headed upstairs.

Oh my god. Do something!

I did the only thing I could: I pleaded. "Skippy Dies cannot go upstairs!"

My wife stopped. She placed the stack of books she was carrying on a step, sighed, and one by one - she's not cold-hearted - looked at a book, announced the book's title, and I sent them, individually, to their fate. It was my own Sophie's Choice.

My books are, plain and simple, members of my family. I may not remember every character's name, every plot twist, every bump in the road, but I remember how the words, the characters, the authors make me feel. I can look at a book I have read and instantly feel it. I love my books for their endless gifts.

Now, when I look at the empty stairs, I think of Skippy.