The bruises have almost disappeared. Two weeks ago, I was attacked by my bookcase because I had the audacity to take away its content; it punched me on the jaw, and dumped its entire weight on my legs. It hurt, but it made me realise I should take more care of my books and their home. Want to know how the story continues? Read on!
I’m used to having bruises on my legs. I sometimes play a game, ‘guess where they come from’, where I have to point at a bruise and remember how I got it. Usually, I haven’t the faintest idea. I’m quite a clumsy person, so it doesn’t worry too much that my legs are black and blue all over. Nobody ever sees them anyway. The problem with the bookcase v Elke incident of two weeks ago was that it was warm outside, and I couldn’t wear long trousers or skirts. My legs were exposed, and the bruises demanded attention.
My family gave me and my unfortunate legs one look, shook their heads, laughed, and simply told me that really, I had outdone myself this time. Colleagues fake-gossipped with me there in the same room, telling each other that my otherwise so gentle boyfriend must have flown off the handle (he would never; and they know, because we work at the same school). Strangers stared at me with pity in their eyes. I met their gaze and smiled. I didn’t feel embarrassed, but I had learned my lesson.
Moving house is like getting a second chance. This time, I would do right by my bookcase, hoping it would forgive me. It would be placed at the best spot in the room, and I would put my favourite books inside of it. In fact, this bookcase would be my top priority, and I wouldn’t do anything else before I had finished this task – and I made sure my bookcase knew. I stroked its sides, and whispered to it that everything would be alright. This time, it didn’t look menacing, and seemed to wait calmly for the books to be returned to their rightful places.
(I didn’t tell it that I had no idea which books should go where. I made sure to reread my fill-the-bookcase manual and pretended that I knew exactly what I was doing. I kept reassuring my bookscase, and slowly filled its outstretched arms with the books it had been missing so much. I didn’t show it my frustration – or sometimes even desperation, and I tried to limit my anguished cries. Whenever I faced the bookcase, I smiled encouragingly. It seemed to believe me.)
When I started, the entire floor was scattered with books. There were stacks of American literature, piles of children’s books, and mountains of still undefined novels. It was a mess. Four hours later, I was done. The books had returned home. Whenever I pass my bookcase, I stroke its sides, and say how happy I am it’s there with my, at my new address.
The bruises have almost disappeared, and I think we’re on good terms again.
Do you ever think bookcases have feelings? Do you put your prettiest books together? Please share your bookcase stories here! Also, don’t forget to follow me for more book-related posts!