The Book Family.

The high stacks of neglected books

Stayed connected to each other,

Seeking warmth.

My father scanned them with bird’s eyes

Choosing, observing and patient.

I would lose my patience,

“Can we go?”

“Just wait a little more.”

I was surprised at how he could spend so long

In a second hand bookstore.

But it smelled good.

The old books had a certain smell

That ripened with age

I would finally regain my normalcy

Once we stepped out

And the smell faded from my nostrils.

Often at times, he would get me books.

One a day, sometimes two or three.

Like a hornbill, he made sure

That I had my necessary supplies.

My mother would get mad at him.

“How many more books do you want?

We won’t even have space to sleep!”

He’d remain silent, and get back to his chair,

With a book.

Now I do the same.

Scanning, observing and patient,

I scrutinise the books in old book stores

And I stock up the house.

My father smiles to himself I’m sure,

“Haha, now what will you say lady?”

But she doesn’t stop.

She’s my mother after all.

And this is our family.

 

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