Of Breadcrumbs and Books

They're gone. They're all gone. 

I was in the middle of a homework assignment from my counselor—write a list of words that describe you. I dutifully typed up the usual; sister, wife, creative writer, loves to travel and try ethnic foods. I added a new one—likes miniature decor—and as I did so, I looked up at my bookshelf facing me that housed two shelves of miniatures. Behind them, in a haphazard sort of way, stood two complete rows of books underneath which a third shelf held another seven smaller paperbacks. These were all the books I had with me now. Other than a black and yellow tub in my mom's basement that held 50 or so books that I still had to bring over one day, I had no more books to call my own. 

They were all gone. 

And as I sat in that knowledge, a deep melancholy sadness came over me. I knew theoretically that I could buy books at any time. I knew that my most precious books from childhood were sitting on those two shelves, Heidi, and Under the Blood Banner, and Little Pilgrim's Progress. I knew that 80% of the books I had bought, I had never read cover-to-cover, unless they were a story, preferring to read snippets here and there and then place them back on the shelf in anticipation of reading the whole book one day. I knew books were merely paper and ink—lifeless soulless inanimate objects—that didn't deserve to be mourned over in the way that I was doing now. And yet, the grief was still there, buried under years of a don't-care'ish attitude because if I cared, I would feel. And if I felt, I would hurt. And if I hurt, I would be vulnerable. And if I was vulnerable, if somebody actually noticed and took a moment to care, I would crumble like a paper-thin page from a century-old book. 

It was why I had gotten so good at listening to others, deflecting attention from myself, talking about events and experiences without sharing the real me. Who the real me was, I wasn't even sure I knew. I didn't know how far back I would have to go to find her. Was she sitting in a tunnel under a bridge, holding on to her knees, rocking back and forth, sobbing because she was so alone? Or was she dancing in the thrill of an African summer rain, face to the sky, open and unafraid of life? 

Was this urgent feeling of needing to scoop up all the books I had ever owned and surround myself with them so strong because over the years I had had to let pieces of me fall by the wayside as I moved on, even though I wanted so badly to keep those pieces with me? 

I don't read these books; they are old, I reasoned as I packed up yet another box of books to take to the giveaway room on campus. 

Thirty years ago, I had given away my favourite big doll with the sculpted plastic hair and a single sprout of hair poking out like a ponytail on top. It was expected of me, and I was happy to do it, in the moment. To walk into that hospital and give away my toys to the sick children. It was what missionary kids did and Jesus loved them for doing it. 

Except the kid who got that doll could have just as easily been given a store-bought plastic doll and it would have made no difference to them. The only person who remembered so many years later was me, the one who had picked out that doll when I was just three years old on a summer holiday with my parents, granny, and favourite uncle in Spain and Portugal. My granny had told me to choose a toy and I, so cleverly, had chosen a doll pushchair. Feeling sorry for me having a pushchair with no doll inside to push around, she had then bought a large doll for me and I left that store with not one, but two gifts that day. 

The doll, the books, the Tupperware olive container, the other red peeler, the pillar glass clock that sat on top of the piano. Tangible pieces that I could follow, like Hansel and Gretel's crumbs, back to where I began. 

But where did I begin?