books, there can never be enough books
i wished she would say that. i wish she would believe that. and i swore, i swore one time she did believe that. but now, now walking between stacks of books, she told me no, she told me in front of the children, no. she told me in front of the children that there were too many books to be had. we had enough books. we had to stop it already with the books. and although i smiled, although i chided her, kissed her, pleaded with her, i felt odd, i felt distant, an immigrant who, having spent a long duration from home not only no longer recognized it, but was now no longer even welcomed.