Bookmarked.
“Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced...and simply never leave. Our lives are measured by these.”
My husband helps me bring up the four bags full of books, giving me a sideways glance that asks Do we really need these? It’s comforting to know that there’s a word to describe my plight. Bibliophile. The Oxford-English defines it as, “lover of Books.” I am a lover of books. It’s in my blood. These most recent acquisitions are my plunder for assisting my Aunt as she prepares to move. At seventy-two, she is intelligent, beautiful, and absolutely should not be bending, lifting, and reaching as much as she insists. And so I join her for the day to make choices about what will stay on the shelves in her new condo, what will be gifted away to family and friends, and what will be donated to a favorite independent bookstore.
One of my most favorite moments-in-passing with my Aunt is the day she told me that her books were her friends. It seemed somewhat an odd statement coming from a woman who is always out and about town. She’s meeting a neighbor for a film, she’s having dinner and taking in the symphony with her son, she's off on a solo trip to Russia. But even as we embark on this journey to whittle what I would comfortably call her library down to fit the shelving in the new space, she says it again “These are my people.”
“These are my people”
My Aunt’s people span every genre, in every voice. There are first editions wrapped in protective covering, advanced reader’s editions with personalized letters from publishers, cloth bound and paperback editions with clever titles that don’t give away the plot. Tony Morrison, Philip Roth, and John Steinbeck share a section; top shelf, a place of honor. Her interests in non-fiction encompass film, memoir, travel, language, mental health, women’s studies. I see titles I know and love myself: Dante’s Inferno, A Suitable Boy, and Interview with a Vampire. And for every author whom I adore, Margaret Atwood and Samuel Beckett, there are at least a dozen I have never heard of before.
She knows them all. And for her, they are each, not just the story themselves, but a story of her life and a reflection of a lifetime of reading.
I become an eager history student.
The author of this children’s book did a signing at the bookshop. He had dinner with my aunt and uncle; they had duck legs. My aunt and uncle were reading this one out loud to one another. They always agreed that if one of them wanted to stop, they would. She liked it, he did not. These books feature her favorite cartoonist. This poetry collection is from the guy who lived on her couch forever.
Here is the book that was displayed on her father’s bookshelf her whole life. She remembers sitting there, reading the title over and over as a little girl. She always thought it was such a sweet title, but found out the book was a lot more serious when she finally read it later in life. She finishes this story with, “Grandpa and I had a pretty good laugh about that when we talked about the book. He was always such a good reader.”
This last story becomes a part of my history now, too.
The donation and gift-away boxes fill up as we work, and I’m equally happy and sad for her. Happy because we are meeting our goal for the new condo. Sad because I can see that each book holds a place in her mind, bookmarking a time and event. The memory of a person. The taste of a dinner. Some choices are easy, she pulls the book from the shelf and says, “Powell’s!” And some she asks herself out loud, “Now, who wanted me to read this?” The knowledge of the who and the why in the decision to keep or send away are just as important as the what. We are both heavy with the parting of loved ones as we complete the project.
I am not a nostalgic person. Ask anyone who knows me. I like to keep little trinkets as much as the next person, but the source of those things get lost to me over time. I was recently gutting a trunk at my parent’s house to help clean out their basement. It was full of the most random whosits and whatsits from high school. Bits of ribbon, dried out corsages, marbles, little bits of paper with some poetic quote on them; all things that I couldn’t begin to imagine why I thought necessary to keep. I’ve got no issue boxing up and letting go. Move on. Next chapter.
But books feel different. I moved a lot throughout my 20s, which meant a number of book purges to supplement my access, or lack thereof, to suitable moving resources. I cringe when I think of what books I may have let go. There are, of course, some pieces that you couldn’t peel my from my fingers if my house was on fire. The signed first edition of Oryx and Crake; the (possibly) first American edition of Sorcerer’s Stone. A copy of Green Mansions that belonged to my uncle’s mother. A collection of Canzoni by T. A. Daly; Italian ballads that a grandmother I never met recited to her children. These books hold the essence of heirlooms and artifacts. And even though I will not have children to pass them on to, their importance does not diminish over time. My life is bookmarked, too.
“My life is bookmarked, too.”
It is with this knowledge fresh in my mind that I say out loud in response to my husband’s silent query, “I’ll find room.” I’ll find room for the Maurice Sendak Nutcracker and The Glass Harmonica. I’ll find room for Americanha and The Mysteries of Harris Burdick. These new companions bring with them their stories, and also hold space in my own story. When I think of COVID-19 quarantine, these will come to mind as a representation of how we slowly returned to what felt like normal activities. They carry with them the memory of the Capital Hill Occupied Protest where my aunt and I walked when we were done with our project. They are the sound of my aunt’s voice as she entrusts me with her memories. My aunt’s people become my people, and I welcome them as new friends.
