They sit, lined up like little soldiers neatly against my bathroom wall, braving the humidity of so many hot showers and children's little hands.
They are strewn haphazardly around my nightstand, filled with prayers and personality.
They line the shelves, organized by theme, title and size.
They accompany me in the kitchen while I wait for breakfast to cook, during the kids' bathtime while I wait for ducks to fish and tugboats to kiss trains, and on cold winter days spent snuggling sick children on the couch.
I've spent hours immersed in their slightly acid scent, their crinkly pages, and their sharp black lines, rubbing their smooth covers between my hands.
I've taught from them, comforted by the thickness of their pages neatly tucked under one arm so as to allow both my hands to talk. (...)
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