The smell of campfires hit me in the face as I turned the page. Not
literally, because I was in my room in the middle of the afternoon, and in no
way remotely close to a bonfire. But this slightly dented hardback, its pages
already creased from the dog ears of another read-through, was one I bought
last summer. The first time I read it was by the light of the fire pit outside
our tent, and the smell came back to me now, as though the pages had absorbed
the smoke when I was reading.
~~
The next book I read
brought a cool breeze to my cheeks, and though the air was silent, I could hear
the jingle of holiday songs. I closed my eyes and saw soft yellow lights among
thick green branches, could feel the satisfaction of wrapping paper tearing beneath
my fingers, revealing the cover that I was now holding in my hands. The first
time I read it was that afternoon, during the peaceful quiet of a holiday.
~~
I crack open my new
book as I exit the bookstore, the rush of a new addition to my collection still
fresh in my bones. The air has a chill to it, and I quickly zip up my jacket,
tugging my silk scarf farther up my face. My eyes drift over the new,
unfamiliar words as my boots crunch through the dead, fallen leaves.
