Books are my security blanket. They are comfort when I am low. They are refuge when I am lost. Books are escapism without repercussion. They let me travel without flight, fly without wings. They are where I let my mind roam freely and where my heart finds peace.
I wander around from room to room, carrying one under my arm, as if I will have time to read it while I vacuum, while I pick up clothes, while I mediate the latest tussle. I found one tucked into my elbow as I opened the screen door to walk outside, on a small errand that would have me back inside in moments. I set it down hastily and grimaced at my inattention. I keep hoping for a moment to myself, the solitude, the quietude needed to flip through pages, immerse myself in plots.
Yet, here I am once more with a hard back comfortably tucked under my arm where it belongs, where it is safe, where it keeps me grounded, sure that the next time I have a moment I will be able to sneak back into its pages, wriggle into its depths, hide in its covers.