Solid Shelf.

I’ve always had shelves. I’ve always had books. Always had massive wood display cases in every city and state I’ve lived.

Old. Hard. Solid. Tall. Wide. Bookshelves.

I was in my early twenties the first time I bought a pair. They caught my eye in the very back basement while I was just browsing for a tea cup.

Within a week, they made the journey from an old antique store in Xenia to Cincinnati. They were handmade and gorgeous. They fit an entire wall wherever they went. And they went everywhere.

“We could just turn them into firewood instead of navigating three floors of steps,” they said.

How dare the suggestion. It never happened. No matter how many times the city or the state changed.

Those old shelves traveled with me for over fifteen years. Sometimes sitting in storage until I could unpack their belongings… the torn tattered old century writings and collectibles that found their way to me and their place on the wood grain shelves… perfectly positioned for me to admire and perceive.

Those black wood beauties were finally sold during a purge -one of many. And they were split up eventually. Along with their memories.

What I was able to salvage, what I was able to keep. What I could display and see. What I knew about what I was collecting.