An exciting week. My travelling daughter has returned, proudly boasting her suitcase was well under the limit. I’m not surprised, considering her bedroom carpet has slowly disappeared in the months of her absence as a steady stream of packages, parcels, post packs and boxes arrived home ahead of her full of books. Until… I had to plead, no more. Our house cannot house any more books. Unless…
She said it first, that dreaded word – Cull.
Followed by grimaces and groans from us both. But it had to be done. And my Sal has grown harsh in her absence. She wouldn’t let her mother peruse the piles she set aside for the op shop. “For your own good,” she admonished.
Yes, I know she’s right. She’s much better at the culling business than I. Then again, she buys more books than me. When she sorts her discards, I gather the little orphans to me and can never help adopting some. In short time, her piles dwindle and my bookcase creaks and cringes housing its newest residents.
This time, weak with the joy of her return, I accepted her decree. Kindly, she set aside a select few she knew I’d appreciate and want, but the rest went into bags without a second look, but several disconcerted walk pasts by me.
But no. They’re gone. And I’ve been brave.
My turn next. As soon as uni ends, I have to sort. My bookcase is now into double stacking and I know it’s time for me to send some less loved out into the world for others to enjoy. Does it make me a bad mother that it’s nearly as hard for me to let go of books, as waving off my tenacious travelling offspring? (Just kidding really. So thrilled to have my gorgeous chick returned to the nest. Until the next time that is.)