With every page I am sewn to the book. With every word another stitch and with every sentence a couple more. With every chapter I am more connected. When the plot thickens and the suspense becomes unbearable, a stitch tightens. Soon I cannot break free. I am now more deeply connected than ever. The thrill and the excitement overwhelm me, but then the book comes to a close. I read the last chapter, the last page, the last sentence, then the last word. That last word is the razor sharp dagger. It strikes through each stitch, it strikes down the string. I am no longer connected. I have been torn free from a past love. The book closes, but clouded with images from the fantasy I am still connected by one single thread. I hold the book in my lap and I gently caress the cover. I smile gently down upon this book. I slowly pick up the book and place it on the bookshelf. I stare at it, still thinking about the wonderful tale that it told, but then I walk away. The string stretches and stretches trying to keep me connected to the book. That one string alone cannot hold onto the book nor me any longer. That one thread snaps. It drifts to the floor and collects with the other severed threads. No longer useful. No longer needed. Later...forgotten.
Years go by and the room has been cleaned and the threads have long been turned to dust. The book that had been placed ever so gently onto the shelf is now old and has collected a layer of dust of its own. Then the grandchild walks into the room. She looks at the many books and smiles. She runs her hands along each book and her hand stops slowly along that one book. The one book her grandparent had read and forgotten. She picks up the book and dusts off the cover. She sits down and the first stitch is made.