Packages in the mail are magical. I get just as much of a kick out of sending them as I do receiving. Today I packaged up two books I recently finished, Sarah’s Key and the Snow Child, to mail to my aunt in Montana. It only seemed fitting that Eowyn Ivey’s book set in the Alaskan wilderness reach her before her first winter surrounded in snow.
As I taped the box shut, I realized I usually do not keep books I like. With the exception of a handful that I love, most of which are in Spanish because I have no one to pass them along to, my shelves are full of books that range from mediocre to downright lame. All the good ones leave in the hands of guests. Visit my house, you’re likely to leave with a book.
Now, I’m thinking that maybe I’ll start mailing more books after I finish them, assuming they’re any good. I like the idea of a book being passed on and on in this fashion. Read, then send to someone else you think might enjoy. That way, the book lives on. And, who knows, maybe good books will start arriving at my doorstep in return.