When I was younger, I loved to snuggle into my parents’ recliner and read my grandmother’s antique, leather-bound book of poetry. I never met my grandmother; she passed away before I was born, but it seems I inherited her love of reading (and her stature). My dad was very protective of this book, and kept it in a glass curio cabinet. It became a rite of passage when I was allowed to read it.
Titled simply, “Favorite Poems” in gold lettering, I loved to feel the buttery soft leather cover, inhale the unique smell of old-book pages, and especially to read the literary treasures within. I was so careful holding this little book of history and memories, my hands nearly shook turning the delicate pages. I felt so grown-up reading those old poems in the living room by myself, especially on cold, winter nights. I imagine I might have lit a candle or two, just to finish the scene. My favorite poem was The Burial of Sir John Moore, and at one point I had it memorized.
I would read a little, then skim the contents pages for titles or authors that sounded interesting. And for the longest time afterward, the young girl I was would think about that little book of poems and be amazed at what a prolific author “Anon” was!