A House is Not a Home…
Without Books
My apartment didn’t feel like home until I had my first bookshelf. It took NINE months. Weird right? I walked in there every day, set my bag down, lay in bed, ate there; it was mine and I knew it, but until that bookcase was there, it was just my apartment. It wasn’t home.
From the day I moved in until the day I assembled my bookcase, my books stayed in a clear container in the back of my closet… and in a small tub with some board games. A few in my backpack from high school. Some in my old TV box (mostly comics). Okay, I had books everywhere. However, the only ones actually displayed were a few hard chosen favorites and a gift I never used (topped with whatever I was currently reading), displayed evenly on my coffee table.
I could say that the reason it didn’t feel like home was because I love reading and without books around me, I don’t feel at peace. I could say it and honestly, there would be some truth to that. I could say it was hard to pick the right bookshelf (how was I gonna get it home without a car); or that I was more into ebooks than paperbacks at the moment. I could even just say that I didn’t know that it didn’t feel like home. All of those are true.
But the reason that comes down to it is more personal. I’ve spent years bouncing around from one place to another. Often with those books put up in storage or with so many boxes stacked on top, I couldn’t reach them. Taking them out and placing them in that bookcase was like releasing a breath I didn’t know I was holding in. This place was mine. I wasn’t going anywhere.
I don’t reread them much, but I add to the bookshelf whenever I pick up something new. It doesn’t hold all my books, and I’ll probably get another one, but whenever I’m in my living room, I sit closest to that self. Even now, I look at it and smile.
I’m Home.
What makes your house a home? Is it an item? A person? A favorite wall?
