Amy N Kaplan

My book beckons. Its pages rustle anxiously at me, compelling me to read them. Words leap out at me, soothing me with their familiarity. I pick it up. It feels so comfortable in my hands – a perfect fit. My fingers tremble in anticipation.

I remember our first meeting. I was only 12. My book sat there on the table next to dozens of others, so new and shiny. Its cover sparkled and caught my attention. The title tantalised me… I wanted to know more. What was this book about? What secrets did it hold? Was this the book for me? I held it and knew it was mine. The memory makes me smile… I love this book.

I open the cover and am transfixed. I have to read; I need to read! Words, sentences, paragraphs and pages fly past me. I take it all in hungrily – eager for more. Page after page, chapter after chapter I read. The day is nearly gone but I cannot stop. I have to finish. I know the outcome, so familiar, so satisfying; yet I read as if the story is new.

I am done; the book is finished. I fall asleep satiated, happy. My book rests comfortably by my side – awaiting our next rendezvous.