Toddler negotiates the coffee-table against a
backdrop of bookcases. The lowest two shelves are protected by baby-gate; not
as a barrier constructed between spaces, but to guard the volumes themselves. He
pulls books. A postcard, business card or press release might slip to the
floor. A cover might tear. We do this to protect our collection, protect ourselves
from the stress and worry of damaged or misplaced titles. You might ask: why
have so many? We have books, and new titles arrive daily. One upon one upon
one. It is a system of weeks before stacks from the desk absorb into shelves. We
attempt a small sense of order. By author, the books are alphabetized by letter
but not yet within each letter. Sm beside Sa beside Sl beside Sp. There isn’t
the time. With small children, one might consider the shelves by themselves as
quite the accomplishment. They might just be right.
In all of this, there is barely a chance to
breathe. To breathe. There is no such thing as a chance to breathe. I haven’t a
moment. I am always in motion.
He is constantly in motion. I remember
thinking, also: I am always in motion.
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