I have been struck in recent days by the fragility of our daily lives...the sight of refugees carrying children and small cases of essentials - and perhaps a few precious items - but abandoning so much of what has constituted and enhanced their lives. And it got me wondering:
What happens to the books left behind?
If they are spared from fire, I hope they may be found one day, perhaps needing to be dried and maybe missing some pages, but perhaps able to be read or at least treasured once more as survivors. I don't know about you, but I keep the books that have been special to me and, even if I don't read them again, they sit on my shelves as a reminder of a remarkable story or character, and that singular memory makes me smile.
In The Housemaid's Daughter, young Ada is taught to read by her Irish employer.
At first I read for every letter. 'TomorrowIsailforAfrica'
Then, after many times of struggling, I began to separate the words. 'Tomorrow I sail...'
Often, there were sentences that I didn't understand but I could think about them all day as I went about my dusting and polishing, and sometimes the meaning that had been hiding within them would jump out at me. The diary became a secret conversation between Madam and myself.
If our precious books are destroyed, I hope that we will keep the stories in our hearts and pass them on to the next generation as best we can.
I don't think Madam knew I was reading her words, but maybe she did?
Was that why, many years later, she left the book behind when she went away?
Left it for me?
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