Strand bookstore, NYC.
I collect anything scribbled in books. I don’t care if edition’s a masterpiece, but I care when someone’s written: “For Mom, 1953, so you’ll know what it is to be young again.” “Remember milk and page 24.”
My apartment’s wallpapered with forgotten inscriptions. Errant lists. Timetables. A monument to lost affection and random thoughts. I’m putting a book together with all these things called: “Don’t forget eggs.”
I reach toward dog-eared copy of The History of Toothbrushes. Open it. “For my newborn daughter. Keep smiling. Your loving father.”
“Pick up unemployment check at noon.”
I head to register.