A Kindled Fire

The book felt light in my hands, a slim novel with seventy pages, a treasured gift from a dear friend. I had forgotten she had given me the book many years ago. I picked it up the other day by chance, a coincidence, perhaps an omen. We had shared the same passion for delicious stories and traded books like high-schooler's sharing secrets late at night. We couldn't wait to discover the end of the story, to dissect each plot line, every character, good and evil. Flipping this slight book open, I re-read the inscription, her neat penmanship causing tears to well. The White Cliffs was given to her in 1942, I could see from inside cover. When rummaging through her old books she had thought of me and passed it along. My friend died almost a year ago and I miss her sorely. Gazing at the writing, the endearment, I swallowed hard, an ache from a missing place that commanded pause, stillness. She knew my passion for stories and writing. She understood my love of words and penchant for keeping titles I savored. Recently however, a confession fell from my lips and as the words spilled they tasted hard, gritty and foreign. "I've been thinking about getting a Kindle Fire," I admitted to various family members. I kept silent about test-driving a co-worker's e-reader in dark bathroom at work. Just to make sure she told the truth, it is possible to read with lights off.  Nagging doubts plagued my mind since revealing this new-found desire. Who would I share beloved books with? Inside covers would not bear witness to beloved friendships. Pages without tattered corners and blotches from unfortunate coffee spills. First-graders with noses pressed up against gray screen sends chills up my spine. Touching the slender novel once more, thank you, the two words breathed out, fingers passing over her handwriting once again. Simply to recall and reflect. And all angst over choice melted like lipstick left on hot dashboard. Books will never leave, just like cherished friendships, they lean against each other, bolstering and propping one another up. And the really great ones leave imprint on our hearts, same as loving friends--kindling a fire, fanning into flame ardent yearning for more. Yesterday at a baby shower, I watched expectant mother's awed expression as she read inscription inside cover of baby book. "Thank you,"she said to co-worker. A pregnant pause. Her countenance I understood, her gratitude mirrored my own, "thank you for writing in the book," she repeated. Inhaling familiar dusty smell of used book store, I vowed to never let my library card expire and always keep my book shelves well stocked. Maybe I will buy a Kindle Fire just for airplanes and bed-time and darkly lit rooms.