first love affair

There is something beautiful about being in love — it is not limited to a person.

There is something I love, have loved for as long as I can remember.

I seek it out everywhere I go, listen for it, talk about it.

Think about it, dream about it.

Love its texture, colors. The way it gets worn with time and knowledge.

The way it can be a lifeline. An escape. A consolation.

My oldest, and youngest, love affair — books.

In a new city, I explore the library, bookstores.

At home, books are displayed, enjoyed, revisited. Lent out. Hands changed and lives changed.

Reading on the subway, sneaking a book into class, crossing the street with a novel in hand. Reading anywhere I can (at least, before my hands were full with kids; now children’s books are my bread).

Perhaps because this is how I was bred.

In the changing landscape of my childhood, bookshelves were a constant fixture. Sturdy, familiar. Tangible.

Playing word games, always — my siblings and parents stringing stories together with each other’s words, inventing and guessing definitions, looking for all the letters of the alphabet on road trips.

We had books about books. Best children’s books. The origin of phrases. Visual encyclopedias. About the letterforms themselves — calligraphy and text.

There is so much beauty in the written word — the way the same set of letters can be rearranged in infinite ways to tell a unique story. The same word in a different context delivering opposing messages, relaying a different history, or vision of the future.

The way words can unite (divide), collide, elegant in a line of poetry, formidable in a block of prose, or paired with a melody — and forget about it. The words come alive, dancing in your ears, echoing your heart.

Letters, words, books.

The universe’s timeless love letter, overflowing treasure, to us.

Below, a few of my favorite bookstores in NYC.