Two: A Book

Aboard the plane I found myself in the seat by the window. Tucked away into the curved, slightly cushioned wall I opened my bag in search of the book I intended to read for the duration of the flight. But it wasn't there. Despite all the planning, all the checks, I had managed to forget my well-thumbed copy of The Catcher in the Rye. Brilliant.
I loved that book. I loved the plot line, the narrative, the writing. I had read it what felt like hundreds of times over but it never failed to capture my attention from start to end. More than anything I loved the safety that the book represented to me. I had owned that book for 6 long years, having first received it as a Christmas present at the age of twelve from a relative I rarely saw. In the time I'd owned that book I had moved house three times, seen my parents’ divorce, gained two step families, shuttled back and forth too many times to count, and spent a week in hospital having broken my leg climbing a tree for a dare that I hadn't considered the consequences of. There was more than just J.D. Salinger's word on those pages. There were dog eared corners from the only time I ever allowed it to be borrowed, the tell-tale ring of a coffee mug, a pencilled heart as drawn by Lucy, the first girl to ever kiss me. In contrast to the fast paced blur that my life had become, this book was a constant. And now I didn't have it, just when I needed it the most.
 
I had no idea my internal panic had been reflected to my external manner until a concerned voice broke me from my reverie. "Are you okay?" I looked up, and there he was. The artist. I nodded, and after a pause in which he appeared to be about to speak, he slid into a seat in the row in front, going back to his drawing once more.
By now everyone was settled, and after the standard safety video that no-one seemed to pay attention to, we took off. I reclined into my seat, watching out the window as the land below got further and further away, until everything merged into one big mess of colour and shape. My mind turned back to the book, which I knew as I cruised above the clouds, was sat on the battered mahogany of the dining table in my mother's busy home, no doubt surrounded by crayons, toys, post, newspapers and clothes; adornments which reflected the dynamic in our home; a hectic amalgamation of work and children. Thinking about it, Child A had upturned a yoghurt during breakfast this morning, a lovely addition to the mess. Knowing my mother, she wouldn't notice until late this evening, after the children were in bed, and she would make an attempt to clean and tidy the table, only for it to return to the same state the next day. It was at this table where my book gained the coffee stain, a careless act on Steve's part, although admittedly he was making a dash to prevent Child B from pushing Child C's high chair over. The incident was soon forgotten, overshadowed by another momentary crisis. The stain, however was permanent.
 
If the table was a symbol of my mother's home, the symbol of my father's was a bookshelf. In living room there is a vast shelving unit made of dark oak which spans across a whole wall. I know many people who have purchased similar bookcases on whim and never filled them, but my father's was fit to burst. Hundreds of books, the odd photo or ornament here and there, but primarily books. It was my father who sparked my interest in literature, having read me books every night of my life until I preferred to read for myself. He was the one who taught me to read, the one who gifted me with books for my birthday every year without fail. The bookshelf contained everything from Harry Potter to Proust, from Shakespeare to books explaining the history of the universe. Strangely enough, he didn't own The Catcher in the  Rye, although he was the one who encouraged me to read it, recommending it highly. After I'd finished he had a desire to read it again, so I loaned it to him. That was how it gained the dog ears. My father's only flaw. He liked to leave a mark on things and forget he'd made them. Once the item was gone, it no longer mattered, but it didn't mean the connection was lost.
 
Latest additions to the already vast library included the works of Julia Donaldson and Dr. Suess; my father having had a baby with his new wife just a year previously. Babies caused mess, I knew from living with my mother, but the bookshelf remained as it had always been; uniform, tidy and grown up. It was a bond between myself and my father that could never be destroyed, a love of literature, a love of knowledge. Sure, the baby would be read to, the baby would be taught these wonderful things, but it would never connect to the bookcase in the same way. I had been there from the start, the day my father brought it home and how we constructed it together, then the many years we spent filling it. Of course, he took it to his new house when he left, and, as I remained with my mother, the access I had was little. But the meaning never changed.
 
What I realised when I considered these representations of my two families, was that the book was not only a thing of safety, but also had become my symbol. It fitted into both worlds; placed carelessly on the table, nested safely in amongst other great works; but it never quite belonged in either. It was in the middle, engrained with marks from both sides, just like I was.