(re-post)
It was at a book sale, flanked by novels, in a sea of fiction. I hadn't taken my reading glasses down from their perch on top of my head because mostly the books I look for at sales, intending to buy them, intending to take them home and add them to my small library, are large books with titles on spines I can see without assistance. Books to do with fibre arts - yarn, textiles, paper; process and technique; profiles of people engaged in such adventures.
At times I come across one of my own books at such sales and always feel a bit of a start at the recognition and unsure how much to acknowledge and how much to ignore. And always a wonder at how it came to be there.
My hand reached out to the narrow book amongst the thicker novels.
Gift from the Sea. Ah. I have been waiting on you, I thought. And this one is 'perfect' - old and worn and read and loved. Anonymously so: no identification of the previous owner(s) on the flyleaf either with name or bookplate or to and from as a gift. No notes in the margin which can be so endearing and chummy and connect the present reader like an echo with one who has already been, the commenter not to know who has 'heard' their 'call'.
The library will now get its copy back with gratitude for the loan while I waited on mine.
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