Today I got a knock on my door. A perfunctory knock. A hasty, I-have-business-otherwhere knock.
It was noon-ish and I freshly dressed and had a houseful of my own kids and the neighbors. My daughter was making cupcakes in the kitchen with her friends. My sons were playing a game that involved a lot of sound effects and weapons which made them. My niece floated between groups trying to get one of them to play with her (Poor dear).
I sat on the couch, reading.
When the summons to the door came, my son opened the door and unimpressed, said, "Mom."
I closed my book, my finger marking my place, because I hadn't yet realized what was waiting for me at the door.
The mail lady, having insufficient room in my mailbox, brought my stuff to the door. I looked at the doorstep and gasped with the effort of holding in my delight. There, resting as innocently as you please on the sun-warmed cement, were books! A lot of books!
Four orange packages. Eight beauteously bound bits of blessings. As I scrambled to get the books into my arms and reassure them that I loved them and would take good care of them, I saw my mail lady walking back to her truck. I yelled, "Thank you!" with so much feeling, I think I made her uncomfortable.
I knelt on my carpet and tore into the packing, excited in ways I haven't been since my last books arrived. The kids all stopped their various activities to see what my deal was. I am now the proud owner of more stories.
The couch is calling my tush's name and my whole being is crying out with impatience for me to crack a spine already! I must give in to my bibliophilia.