[Poetry for Lent] On finding Christina Rossetti in the boot of my car
When the time came to pack and leave my home, I decided to release much of my book collection. For years it had allowed my mind to roam but now it had become a prison of dust. A menagerie of memory that I was unlikely to revisit. A zoo of captured titles best released to run into the arms of others who would care for them more. It wasn't a random scattering or hasty relocation: consideration given to the future prospects of each. Some would fly to the stars, some sail to imaginary cities, some burn in the fire of hell, some trudge the streets after dark. A few slunk timidly back to where they came from, tail between their legs and a look of miserably apology.
The final slow journey was taken by those who defied definition. Not easily homed elsewhere, but uncomfortably hunched on the newly-stripped shelves, these books had to go. A collection of children's prayers, slenderly fitting between a bible (which would stay) and some biology essays (which would not). An impenetrable american classic whose leviathan presence mocked me: it was time for it to take to the briny depths of the charity box. I never learned Slovakian, sorted out my IBS through diet or passed day four of 365 origami pieces but perhaps, perhaps, perhaps someone else would. Into the boot of the car with you, then, and on to the work book exchange. Let others idly leaf through while tea is brewing, maybe foster you for a while, perhaps even adopt?
Six months later I found the collected poems of Christina Rosetti on the coffee room shelf. "Oo," I thought, "What a find!" Slowly realisation dawned that I'd donated it in the first place so it was back into the boot of the car with her where she stayed until that boot itself was re-homed.
The final slow journey was taken by those who defied definition. Not easily homed elsewhere, but uncomfortably hunched on the newly-stripped shelves, these books had to go. A collection of children's prayers, slenderly fitting between a bible (which would stay) and some biology essays (which would not). An impenetrable american classic whose leviathan presence mocked me: it was time for it to take to the briny depths of the charity box. I never learned Slovakian, sorted out my IBS through diet or passed day four of 365 origami pieces but perhaps, perhaps, perhaps someone else would. Into the boot of the car with you, then, and on to the work book exchange. Let others idly leaf through while tea is brewing, maybe foster you for a while, perhaps even adopt?
Six months later I found the collected poems of Christina Rosetti on the coffee room shelf. "Oo," I thought, "What a find!" Slowly realisation dawned that I'd donated it in the first place so it was back into the boot of the car with her where she stayed until that boot itself was re-homed.