The Bookshelf

I’m standing in front of a bookshelf. It’s a beautiful wooden ornate one. One row is completely full, while the others are empty. There doesn’t seem to be any titles on any of the books but each is a different color.

I reach for one of them. It’s crimson red.

Inside is the story of a teenager, full of anger and rebellious tendencies. She’s 15, curious about the world around her, only to find her curiosity being tended to by the wrong people. The story begins and ends with violence.

I put it down, reach for another.

This one is a soft shade of lavender. Inside is the story of a child. She’s 6 years old. So shy and quiet, her best friend is her own imagination. She spends hours playing super hero, tying table cloths around her neck to make a cape. Eager to help, eager to save, eager to be somebody someday. The story begins and ends almost as quickly as it started.

I put it down, reach for another.

It appears to be a melancholic shade of blue. This one holds short stories. Stories of love gained and love lost. Stories of chasing love in all of the wrong places and in all of the wrong ways. Stories of betrayal and stories of grief. They speak of not knowing what to do, when to stay or better yet, when to leave. “For love, for wanting love, for wanting to be loved” is what the foreword says.

I close it up.

The last one on the far end is a jade green. I’m nervous about what I’ll find inside. But to my surprise, this one tells the story of love as well. People sitting around the dinner table, laughing, eating, holding hands. Gentle kisses on the forehead are being exchanged along with compliments and words of encouragement. It seems like they’re all friends with one another, each with a deep understanding of what it means to hurt, hope and heal. The protagonist is a tired artist. Sitting back, they reflect on the years left behind. The mountains they’ve climbed, the things they’ve learned, the photographs they’ve taken. And despite the immensity of their exhaustion, they continue to plan ahead for a future not yet written, hopeful to find rest.

On the last page, the words “to be continued” were written.

I step back to carefully analyze the many different shades of colors and the order in which these books have been placed.

I realize then that this is my collection. This is me, all of me. So many questions all at once. And then I come to a final realization. There are still so many rows that have yet to be filled.