books and reading
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It’s a book-shop kind of Sunday. Quiet chatter, and whirling grinders tickle my ears. The smell of coffee and books float through the air with each long, slow breathe. I camp out at a small table with a hot tea latte, a muffin, and my little laptop. The window to my right displays a cool
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books on the sofa, my bed, strewn across the kitchen table, and stacked on the window’s ledge. Pages turned and marked haphazardly with bookmarks, paper scraps, folded book covers, and even pens. Left open like a half-finished thought- read at varying paces. Just one is never enough. half-read books stored in many places.
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I come across my book addiction naturally. I grew up surrounded by stacked shelves, bending from the weight of bound paper. Ink runs through my veins instead of blood. Even now, as adults in the age of tablets, auto, and ebooks, my entire family is addicted to hoarding the printed word. Though we all have
Bringing Mae Flowers 