I was pretending I could read before I learned. The upside down books in my hands gave it away.
I accused another girl of spoiling A Wrinkle in Time during story hour. I was in 2nd grade.
I spent my weekends with Dad planning our weekly trip to Borders. The customer service desk folks knew me by name.
I dragged an Adidas duffle bag stuffed with paperbacks on a solitary 12 hour train ride at 16. My brothers laughed when they retrieved me in New Hampshire.
I called my dad from Seattle and begged for a loan so I could ship books home that wouldn’t fit in my backpack. The shop I found had an entire section of books on books.
I wrote a thesis on the emotional effects of reading so I would have the excuse to read about reading for a semester.
My friends won’t help me move anymore. I don’t blame them.