A Confusing Life

"Hey, Mom, where's the box with all of my books?" I called downstairs. When Alissa, my mom, didn't answer, I ran downstairs and found her and my dad doing shots with one of their friends.

We just recently moved to Nightlife, and we had finished unpacking...well...they had. Alissa is one of those 32 year-old, party-all-night, drink-as-much-as-possible moms. Her husband, John, he's the same way. Their divorced but they still live together which I find very strange.

"Mom?"

"Darling, call me Alissa. You make me feel old." She said and leaned against the counter.

"Um...Alissa? Do you know where my box of books is?" I quickly asked. Alissa shrugged and then pointed to the backdoor.

"I think the rest of the stuff is out back. Oh, and Aisha, grab my box of cigarettes while you're at it." I nodded and darted out the back door.

Tonight, October 27, the moon shone brightly over the treetops of the forest in the backyard. Everything glowed a silver that I would have never seen in Nebraska. Clouds shifted infront of the moon, shielding its glory from all. A cold wind wrapped itself around the trees and shook them violently while howling an unfamiliar tune.

"Aisha," Someone said from my right. I quickly turned and laughed when I noticed no one was there except a shadow on the house wall. The shadow took the shape of a tiny, 5'1'' girl with waist-length hair blowing in the wind. The girl mimicked every move I made and silent laughs filled my head. My lips curved up in a smile and I turned away from the tiny girl.

In front of me lay several, beat-up, cardboard boxes. One of them held my most valuable possessions, my books. Hard-backs, paper-backs, fiction, non-fiction, biographies, fantasies, mysterys, and even some tall-tales. All of them my companions for life. Not one day went by that I didn't have my face planted in a book.

I never understood why I was so drawn to books. Maybe because there is always a happy ending. Maybe because there is a similarity between me and a character that I cannot pinpoint. Maybe the scent of old pages and new pages are a drug to me. Maybe because no matter where I go, there will always be a book. Whether new, or old, or bought, or borrowed. They will always be there.

I sat on the soft, green lawn and opened up a box and that wonderful smell of pages and pages of literature greeted my nose. My eyes devoured the sight of all of the wonderful books, thick and thin, tall and short. I picked up the top book and the weight of it in my hand brought me instant pleasure and a calm no words can explain. My fingers quickly flipped through the pages of the old fairy-tale picture book. The feeling of the sick, glassy pages made my heart flutter and a smile spread across my face.

My books.

My friends.

Today had been a whirlwind of events and I could barely keep up. But now, with the full, silver moon shining above me, and I slight breeze around me, with a book in my hand, I'm finally caught up.

I set the book down gently and picked up a familiar book. Light in it's weight. "The Complete Grimm's Fairy Tales". I laid back on the grass, pulled out a tiny flashlight from my pocket, and started reading the familiar, childish book.

For the first time today, I felt safe.

Comfortable.

And like I'm finally home.