I’m a voracious reader. I
always have been. I can gobble a good book almost as quickly as I can devour a
bag of Lindt Chocolate Truffles. In fact, both have a home on my bedside table.
For me, the genre really doesn’t matter. It’s what simmers between the covers:
the flavor of the words.
Growing up, my older sister and I shared a bedroom. It was a
converted garage, located down a step and off the laundry room, away from the
main part of the house. With a small, attached bathroom of our own, and
distance from everyone else in the household, we developed our own bedtime
ritual.
Our beds stood against the far wall, head-to-head, with maybe twelve
inches of distance between. At the foot of my bed was the wall with a doorway
to our “accommodations.” Next to the
doorway was our very own heater, a tall grate-type thing that we were
responsible for lighting. The pilot light was at the bottom, through a metal
door, and a sliding tab on the top adjusted the heat temperature. A living beast,
it would awake with a roar, then moan and groan all through the winter nights,
puffing out the smell of burning dust. If
it wasn’t fed properly with our little wooden matches, the morning would begin
with hurried steps over ice cold, linoleum-covered concrete floors. Though I
was closest to the heater, I was younger than my sister by four years; I’d
snuggle deep into my blankets and pretend to sleep, forcing Sarah to take care
of it.
Between our beds, hung a pink sheet curtain on a wooden rod. At the
foot of my sister’s bed, where the garage door would have been, stood a wall lined
the whole way across with windows and bookshelves filled with girlhood
knick-knacks and books. Lots of books.
Late at night, my sister would slide back the curtain and crack
open a book. And begin to read aloud. She bestowed upon me the wonder of words,
headed in part by the amazing Dame Agatha Christie, my first true love. “Death
Comes as the End” will forever stir in me the craving of cold, burnt-dust
nights, tucked cozily into my childhood, my sister’s voice drifting over the
headboards.
Words are a treat. Prepared well, they create dreams and memories,
fears and hopes; once consumed, they are digested by the reader, adding flavor
to the imagination, enhancing the way one thinks and sees. The best of the best
sit with us, our entire lifetimes through, allowing us, at any given time, to
chew on an idea or concept we may never have thought of on our own. It is a
truly glorious thing. And I have a voracious appetite.
