To open a book is to accept promise. To move beyond a flexible soft cover or authoritative hard cover is to enter wonder. To read words on a page is to lend an author your time, to let that author guide you on an adventure he or she believes is worth pursuing. If it is, your finger may inadvertently glide toward the top right corner, tucking under the page in anticipation of the turn. To close a book is to declare accomplishment, as in, I completed this journey, or to announce indifference, as in, this topic or writing style isn’t for me. Regardless, another book always awaits.

When I was a child, summer meant time to read. I joined the library’s reading club every June, setting higher goals each year. At age 10, I shocked the one of the volunteers. She suggested a goal of one or two books per week. My goal, I announced, was 200 for the summer. I documented my progress, the list of books I read spilling off the worksheet and onto sheets of notebook paper. My favorites included Shel Silverstein’s “Falling Up” and Jack Prelutsky’s “A Pizza the Size of the Sun.” I read each word of a book of Emily Dickenson’s poetry but understood hardly any of it. It made it on the list of 200, but to this day it sits on my bookshelf, waiting for me to accept its promise once again.