The One With The Bookworm.

Dear Lover,

I'll leave it up to you, of course.
Because that's how the giving of presents should go.

You love a person.  See them in a certain light.  Want to give them something to hold in their hands.  As a symbol.  So try hard to transfer that light creatively into the form of a concept.  Then scramble to try to find a concrete and realistic version.  Finally to present the well thought out gift with eager anticipation. 

Wrapped in comic strip newspaper pages and curly ribbon.
Naturally.

But just in case you're ever in a jam.

A book.
It's always the perfect gift.
And will always make me terribly happy.

Because.  You see.
I am mad about books.
The flip-the-uncut-dog-earred-pages-that-smell-of-sugar-cookies sort of books.
Their words and characters and etchings are proof of the days that have passed.
Of the memories of the moment.
And the woman I've become.
And for a woman who at the moment in her life must rely entirely on lending libraries for her bookish fix.
A book of my own.
To add to my green bookshelves.
And to take down from the shelves time and time again.
To hold in my hands.
To smell the sugar cookie parchment.
To bend the spine.
To scribble and underline the written words.
To dog-ear the corners.
To read a line and sigh.
And say, Yes.  Yes.  I understand completely.
To read a another line and curl the corners of my mouth.
And file away.
What I am feeling.
About life.  About love.  About, perhaps, even you.

And to be able to do all of this.
Just as much as I choose.
Because the gift I hold in my hands is mine mine mine!
Until I die!
(For I am most certainly not the type to leave a beloved book on a park bench. 
No matter the romanticism one might find in the act. 
So will keep the tome until... well... the tomb.)

So.  There you go.
In case you ever find yourself in a present-purchasing-pickle.

Love,
Me.