He loved books.
His house was filled with shelves
hardback, paperback, first edition, imported, used
fantastic dreams, impossible voyages
scientific marvels, harsh unrealities
these were his world
the starship of his mind adrift in countless worlds.

He understood that magic was truth
science merely an excuse to explain what we already knew
everything possible did exist somewhere
even if we could not see them
unicorns, gryphons, dragons of pink and blue and paisley.

They sold his books.
In boxes, crates, brown taped and markered
they loaded the pieces of his soul;
the auditors came, passed judgement over a lifetime
a few dollars per box
the used book store, home to unwanted memories,
took them in, separated them
scattered them to the winds.

A teenager wanders through the store
uncertain of her life her future what she wants and needs
sees the cover, picks up just one book;

Her world is momentarily opened to include
dusky boys upon the backs of elephants;
riding a turtle through time;
a hero upon a blue unicorn
a girl in a bathrobe riding through space in a shoe
she opens herself to newnesses beyond imagination.

Like a keeper of birds, he kept them close to him;
The birds have flown in a thousand directions
each a part of him
and so he lives on in a thousand ways.
A thousand lovers of books
will look at the imprint upon the page
and wonder, who was he that loved this book so much?