A closed book
Once upon a time there was a book. A closed book. Sadly closed. Hopelessly closed.
Nobody had ever opened it, not even to read the first lines of the first page, of the many
pages that the book had to offer.
The person who had bought it, took it home and, probably unaware of how much the book
was worth, of what the book had in it, put it on a shelf, with many others.
There he was. There he stayed.
One day, he couldn’t hold it any longer and he complained:
“Nobody reads me. Nobody cares about me.”
Beside him, another book said:
“I guess that, in this bookcase, there must be many other books like you.”
“Are you one of them?” the book, which had never been opened, asked anxiously.
“Oh no!” explained his fellow book, a respectable thick one. “I’m all underlined. I was read
again and again. I’m a study book.”
“I wish I was that lucky,” said another book beside him, joining the conversation. “They
have only flicked through me, every other page… But, at least, I was of some use.”
“So, was I,” spoke a very thin book, close by. “For a long time I was used as a wedge under
a table, which had a shorter leg.”
“That’s no work fit for a book,” frowned a thick book.
“When there is no other…” resigned the thin book.
Listening to his fellow books in the book case, the book, which had never been opened, felt
a secret envy. At least, they had something to tell, whereas he… he sighed.
He didn’t have time to finish his sigh, because two hands took him out of the self. The
hands held him and laid him over a pair of knees.
“That book, does it have pictures?” asked the voice of a little girl who was leaning over the
book, still closed.
“Doesn’t it?! Lots of pictures, lots of stories, which I’m going to read to you,” said a
stronger voice, whom the hands belonged to, which had chosen the book. He started
turning over the leaves and, while he was smoothing the first pages, he said:
“This book has a story. I bought it the day you were born. I kept it for you to this day. It’s
a very special book.”
“Read it to me,” requested the voice of the little girl.
And the girl’s father read it. The open book let itself be read, from end to end. Sometimes
things are worth waiting for.
A. Torrado