There are books I read that allow me to spend time with my parents. Both have been gone from life some time now. When I read a book, I know one or both read, I feel them alive, right there with me. After all, my eyes are hiking the very same trail of words theirs did.

I’ve loved the experience of reading books all my life. Reading is a perpetual sanctuary of wonders. A reader friend of mine noticed I like reading the old authors. She was referring to my love of Charles Dickens, Edith Wharton, John Steinbeck, George Eliot, Anthony Trollope, William Faulkner, Leo Tolstoy. Come to think of it, she might think John Updike, John Cheever, Anne Rice, Philip Roth, and Anna Quindlen are old authors (I love them too!). She may have a point.

When I got to thinking about what she said, two things came to mind. First, when it comes to revisiting books and poems and short stories, I ask, would any of us only listen to a piece of music we loved only one time? Do you only look at a painting or photo you like one time?  The second thing that came to mind was a precious and sacred discovery. When I read books my mother read, my father read, they are with me throughout the reading of the book. They each walked the same trail of words I’m walking.  When I’m reading a book that belonged to my mother and father, and it is signed by one or both of them, I am in sacred territory.

I’ll walk any trail that brings my mother and father to life.