I remember the weight of books.
That very old encyclopedia on the shelf of my childhood home, its immense volumes, scented with dust, wood smoke, and the passing of time. I was small I had to use both hands to lift a single book. The pages were yellowed, soft, and worn at the edges, as if they had been caressed by the hands of many lifetimes.
I would sit by the window in the late afternoon light, the book open on my lap like a treasure map...

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