The other day I was out with Mister, trying to find a restaurant we love. I’ve always remembered the place’s locale as being adjacent to a huge book store. Only the book store isn’t there anymore. (I eventually sniffed out the restaurant, don’t you worry.)

 

Book stores are becoming dinosaurs. Even their bones are harder and harder to find. And that breaks my heart, for I love to read. I love the way books smell. The way they feel in my hands. Their weight. Though I wasn’t much of a reader when I was a kid, I am now a reading fiend.

 

Many of my friends and family have gotten on-board with some form or another of e-reader. They extol the virtues of e-reader ease. They tell me how traveling with an e-reader is the way to go. They love their new, electronic books. And they miss nothing of the old models.

 

 

Or do they? Once in a while, a friend will confide in me to say she misses the way books feel. That she misses the physical act of turning pages. But then the moment passes and that friend will say that no matter how much she misses real books, she’ll never go back.

 

And so another book store has bitten the dust. Fortunately, I still have one or two remaining stores on my circuit. My real, physical circuit. Where I can pick up a book and thumb through it, maybe read a passage or two. I must admit, I’m a book junkie. In fact, I don’t remember the last time I visited a book store without buying something. And smiling about it, all the way home.

 

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