He filled the small bookcase with his favorites. He packed it from side to side and top to bottom, saving as many of the books as he could. The rest were going to be sold, and of those that didn't sell, they would be packed up and donated to the local library or wherever they would be welcomed and appreciated.
They all contained a little piece of him within their pages. He poured over each and every one with the same enthusiasm when they were new. Sometimes, he'd finish reading them the day after he bought them, having stayed up all night as time melted away and he found himself living the story and breathing the same air as his new friends, the characters in his books.
Life had pushed and pulled him down many unexpected paths. Most of them left him a little worse than where he started. He never complained. Rolling with the punches was his skill in life. The most recent path, though, had brought him to a very small studio apartment. Space was limited. Reluctantly, he chose to part with all but those that would fit inside the bookcase.
The last book to be sorted found its home in the boxes that were to be sold or given away. He sat down next to the box and closed it up, sealing with tape, and wrote the word "sell" on the top in black ink. His son would be there the next day to take all of the "sell" boxes away and do the tedious work of pricing the contents.
***
Seven months had passed since the books were gathered up and removed from the small apartment and two weeks had gone by since the old man passed. The son sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the bookcase and all that it held. He read the titles from the spines and with each one, memories of his father reading it to him came flooding back into his mind, echoes of a past nearly completely forgotten. Not a single adult book had been saved. Only the memories of the bond that they shared before the teenage years smashed it to bits.
The son cried.
