Gemotions

"A box of old books," the solicitor droned, "and a small savings account." My brother, David, slammed his fist on the table. He was a man of ambition, a man who measured success in dollars. I'd come to believe in nothing. I’d come to want nothing.

The books, however, were something else. Leather-bound volumes, their pages yellowed with age, filled with stories. The scent of old paper was intoxicating. I picked one up, a collection of poetry. I was instantly, utterly captivated.

I found David, lost in the shadows, smoking a cigarette on the porch. The setting sun cast long shadows. I sat down next to him. I showed him one of the poems I was reading, and said, in a quiet voice, "This is really beautiful, David. It feels… alive, somehow.”