Thoughts of a Book

I am a book, but I can not see my name nor read my story. Passed from hand to hand, opened and read again and again, I do not know what tales I tell. I am well-worn and battle-scarred; I am ancient and wise. I know of all that goes on around me, all of what is happening in the world. I remember the sagas of every person, child and adult, that has gazed wonderingly into my cover and been entranced by the words my pages hold. But the one epic I know not, is my own. If only someone would read aloud from my pages, telling my own story to me. The romance within me is kept locked away, as surely as a pirate’s treasure is hidden. But I have no map to follow and no “X” to reveal the drama within. “A sequel”, I hear, and soon I am put aside, left on a shelf. I wait, and my wait is not in vain. A young girl pulls me from my crypt. “This one, Mommy! Read this one”! I am opened, just as I have been opened in the past. But this time is different; this time I am read out loud.

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