I want to be like an old book whose value and beauty rest in its hombre-edged faded pages, whose skin isn’t quite as vibrant and alluring as it once was, whose binding, joining each consecutive chapter, creaks and cracks when opened, and whose wisdom surfaces in washed-out underlined passages.

I want to be like an old book, beloved and sacred because of the epiphanies and insights within each surprising chapter into which are inbedded engrossing stories, transporting readers into other worlds, triggering aspirational dreams.

I want to be an inviting old book void of a predictable jacket vignette, one whose love story isn’t judged by its book cover, but must be revealed only when opened and devoured.

I want to be like a treasured antique book, used and damaged by frequent fingers tracing its phrases, folding its corners, and writing notes in its margins. I don’t want to be alphabetized and displayed in a mahogany polished library, but instead, precariously stacked on a bedside table waiting to be read.

I want to be the favorite old book that my grandchildren can open anytime and anywhere they please to find answers to their curiousities.

Oh, to be treasured like an old book!

Can you name your favorite book?