At our house, books are like litter along a stretch of abandoned inner-city streets. Rooms here are often abandoned by people, but the reading material left behind is ever present.
No matter how often magazines are placed back into baskets, books onto shelves, and newspapers carefully stacked, they reappear almost instantaneously. Some balance precariously on the arms of chairs or sofas, near end tables with coasters still coffee-warm...wonder who left those?
Magazines, with their slippery, glossy covers somehow slide from their designated spots back to a place at the table, joined by sandwich crumbs and a leftover cup. They sneak into bookbags and purses and lie open on sofas next to people-shaped dips in the cushions. Others find their way somehow into the bathrooms, maybe paying tribute to the days when Sears Roebuck played a critical role in this room of the house.
Still more books lie piled in places both imaginable and slightly surprising. They are commonly found sorted into piles of reading-now, just-finished-but-not-ready-to-reshelve, or waiting-to-be-read. Books alone or in piles in the usual places, like the large ottoman in the living room or the bedside tables in the bedrooms. But they are also found in the beds themselves, nestled under pillows or tangled in sheets. They turn up under couch cushions and in the garage and in the car.
Litterbugs...we are a household of literary litterbugs.