Good morning, Reader. It’s chilly here, but not so chilly that we have snow. I’m surrounded by family, loved ones, and warm wishes from far away. All of the gifts that I gave or received were welcomed with gratitude, appreciation and understanding.

The best thing about this year happened to be that there were no big gifts. Small cards, presents and greetings carried just the right amount of warmth and love. And our tree looks fantastic tucked into the corner near our cozy pet lizard.

Even still, I feel as though that chill, the one that forgot to bring snow, has settled inside me. I feel a cold weight that I can’t seem to shake. It doesn’t hurt, or even ache. It’s just there. Keeping me from breathing properly or enjoying this crisp, festive morning with my father.

I wish I could shed the feeling as easily as the wrapping paper had been torn from our presents. So sorry, reader. That was a bit cliché. But what is this season if not a time for a few unappreciated clichés?

I know that it’s important to participate despite the chill inside, just as we go out into the world on these cold days. And I know that this feeling is going to pass, maybe it’s just the time of year, but it’s still something to acknowledge.

So here I am acknowledging my seasonal blues and yours, too, reader.

Truly yours.

Hello Reader,

There are a few books in this world that I will always buy when I visit a book store. Three or four books that I actively hunt for among the shelves full of loved, sold, re-purchased, and re-loved books. And I usually don’t find them. In fact, I’ve probably only found these books a handful of times in my whole life, but this only makes it that much more satisfying when I do find them, hidden in a section I hadn’t thought to hunt in before, or in a shop I’d walked past a few dozen times. And when I find one of these books, it’s like greeting an old friend. Maybe even better.

There is one of these books sitting in my cubby at work, waiting to be picked up by its recipient. And another two taking up a little bit of counter space at my home until I find the right person to give them to. Two copies of the same book, same printing and everything, that I found for a price I couldn’t pass up on. They’re one of my favorites, too, and I can’t wait to find the right person for them.

Of course, while the books are with me, between the time I buy them and the time I give them away, I do wonder what it would be like to start my adventure over. I could slip into that well-appreciated world one more time, just on a whim and maybe only for a few pages. It’s awfully tempting, really, and sometimes I succumb.

There’s one that has become a “bus book”, as prescribed by its new owner. A mystery book about murder and a new job. It’s difficult to not ask how the book is getting on in its new home, and it gets only harder each time I see the person I gave it to. I have to make a conscious effort not to bother them about it, because I know that pestering someone about a book can completely taint the flavor of a book. I try very hard not to let my tongue slip too often. Again, I do sometimes succumb.

These are my gifts. I do not loan out books or sell them. Books are something that I value more if I can give them away and intend to never see them again. Sometimes, someone will insist they return a book once they’ve finished, and I tell them that if they are so intent upon giving it back, they should give it away to someone new when they’ve finished.

These books are just books that I appreciate, and find used and abandoned. Books that I give to people that I love, when it means the most or when I manage to find the exact right person for the exact right book. They’re just books, but when I see the look in their eyes when they receive a book I’ve chosen just for them, these books become so much more.

And with that, I wish you good night, reader. And welcome back.