It was time to get rid of some of my old books. I rarely picked them up only occasionally blowing the dust off a sturdy spine and taking in with relish the musty odor of age. I open the cover of one with care for fear of fragility noting the yellowing pages are stronger than they look. I check for handwriting on the front page often finding there a loving signature in fountain pen ink - fading but heartfelt still. Flipping to a random page, I pull the attached silk ribbon to mark my page. I read the title again though I know all my books like friends.

This one, "Evangeline" is a favorite. The cover is etched in gold leaf with pine cones surrounding several roses, appropriate for the achingly beautiful poetry of Longfellow. It is with sentiment that I tuck it back in its place on the shelf. It is one I will keep.

The next is an old companion titled "Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush" by Ian MacLaren. I glance at the 1894 copyright and think about what life might have been like back then. This copy sold for fifty cents. The binding is somewhat loose but I don't care. I gently leaf through the pages reading aloud the middle english dialect of the characters. I replace the book beside the other noticing the stain on the back cover and wondering what circumstance had left it there.

Sliding to the floor beside my bookcase, I know my effort to clear it of its ancient residents is impossible. They are too familiar. They are like relatives waiting in the shadows until called upon for kernals of wisdom or offers of comfort. I will keep the old books, letting them gather the dust of more years until someone like me breaths in the must and sees a kingdom there.. .