Remember Me, the Book You Bought in College to Impress That Girl?
A love story for the pages
I remember the summer we met like it was yesterday. You bought me, saved me, from Recycled Books where I sat with 14 copies of myself. You carried me in your pocket. It was exciting. At last, someone who appreciated my complications, my nuances, my nuggets of one-sentence wisdom. Being held and flipped through again was heaven after my previous owner died. With you, I saw a world of possibilities.
Then there was Karma Cafe, where you began to read me. Kind of a cliché move, but okay, you’re in college. I didn’t want to be disappointed, but as you sipped your espresso, I noticed you weren’t focused on me. You kept eying the girl working the counter. That’s how it remained for a while. You, underlining passages inside me outside of their context to sound deep, like, “My father’s eyes are mine.” Me, my spine cracking bit by bit, barely holding my pages together, barely holding my tears back.
Now, you’re older, graduated, and here I am at the back of your bookshelf. The book you bought to impress that girl. You may have forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten you or that barista.
Whatever happened to her? When she told you that humanity is a ball of wax that can be molded by our thoughts, you circled that part in me and…
