I lay here in bed, sick, as I write this post. I am also pouring over my memory of the past year trying to remember the books I have read, stacking them against each other, measuring one against the other. And I really can’t. Not because I have read so many or because they were all so superior. Or even because I feel as if I am such a literary snob that all my selections are excellent. Honestly, it would be because I haven’t read much this year.
I can’t even remember what I have read! I know that I have… what were they again? I know I read some funny ones and some serious. There were a couple that made me cry. And there were a few nonfiction titles — my “nerd” books, I call them. Yet, they don’t really stand out right now.
There were the many times I read the picture books The Busy Bea and Goodnight Moon, plus all the picture books I pick up through out the day. And all the times I referred to my university’s textbook while preparing lessons late on Friday nights after my kids were in bed. There were all the young adult books packed in boxes in our basement that I sorted through with my son, pulling out all the great titles for him to read and putting away the books that he has read too many times. I dusted off the beautiful red book, a collection of love poems by the Brownings, that was a favorite of my grandmother — a woman I didn’t know without her Alzheimer’s. Then there’s the baby book I am behind filling in and the scrapbook I finally finished.
My time will come when I am able to find moments to read and remember what I have read. Right now, or at least this last year, hasn’t been my time. Right now, my time is to turn the bright pages of picture books and talk to my boy about young adult books. I spent time with the books I have loved the most this year. Excepting, perhaps, my textbook.