We didn’t have backpacks. We had lockers. When we transitioned from the one classroom of sixth grade to the multi-class cycle day system of junior high, they gave us combinations and a stacks of books. Theft was not a big problem. Not that we were morally superior. The five minutes allowed to get from class to class was barely enough time to search your own locker. I wasn’t worried about my coat. Or my boots. But my books. My underlined, yellow-highlighted, notes in margins, heart clutched books…I loved them. My most prized possessions. I carried the stack from class to class.

At the first teacher’s conferences, I got the standard responses. They told my mother I was doing well. “But she doesn’t need to carry all of her books to every class.” My mother smiled, “Actually, she does.” She knew me.

I suppose I have always lived in the word. The comfort. The hope. The beauty. They danced from my mother’s mouth, until I learned to partner with them myself. They have never left me.

As we travel from city to city, the first thing I look for is the bookstore. Even if I don’t go inside, I do need to know it’s there. I trust a city that reads. A people that live word by word.

My suitcases are weighted with this trust. Books in every zippered flap. Some might find that silly. Some might say you don’t need them. With the assurance of heaven smiles and heart whispers, I tell you, “Actually, I do.”