Someone recently told me that I can’t skip chapters. That life doesn’t work that way. I am supposed to read every line, and that I won’t want to read some of it and that some chapters will make me cry for weeks.
I’m skipping to the back page and reading it first.
Then I’m going back and thumbing through to find money or pressed flowers previous owners may have left behind. And I’m going to look at all the pictures.
I will search pages for highlighted lines and scour the margins for scribbled notes.
I’m going to smell it (because I’m a book sniffer from way back) and giggle when the dust tickles my nose.
And if I get to a sad or scary part, I’m going to rip the page out, crumple it up, dip it in ranch dressing, and eat it.