This was an early moment during the weekend's thrilling bookshelf-installation project. The shelves are Tom's own design and fabrication: repurposed meranti boards (detritus from someone's fence and deck) between strips of steel, sprayed black.
He's got one more bookcase to finish installing tonight, but I have been given leave to begin unpacking novels before he comes home. I can hardly wait. It has been two years since I last handled my books, and then the moment was entirely sadness--living alone in Harmony, clearing my beloved volumes from the shelves, boxing them up for an unknown future.
Today could be eventful, for I think the plumber is still planning to arrive this morning to install the sink drains and dishwasher and ice-maker hookups. Naturally I am always prepared for plumbing disappointment. But maybe, just maybe, this time will be different. . . .
3 comments:
One day it had to happen and here it is: the day Dawn Potter channeled Faulkner: "...it's going to begin, we all know that, we have come too far with too much at stake and that moment doesn't need even a fourteen-year-old boy to think This time. Maybe this time..." (from Intruder in the Dust)
P.s. Tom's shelves look brilliant!
Faulker! What happenstance is this ? I was just talking about Faulkner (as in "these paperbacks are in rags. Should we replace them?"
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