Reunited and It Feels So Good

This relationship has been rocky from the beginning.

When we were together in Ohio, it was different; neither of us knew about what was possible in the wider world.  There was no internet, remember that? Everything I knew about anything, I found out from you, painstakingly, piece by piece. Warm, drowsy afternoons, spiked with the thrill of discovery when I least expected it. You opened up worlds to me that I never would have found otherwise. I’ll always be grateful for that.

But even then, when I was just a kid, I rebelled against you.  I broke faith with you more than I should have. You were patient and forgiving, and I took advantage of that, ignoring you and your needs until you had something I needed, when I would hastily make amends to fulfill my own desires. I’m sorry I did that to you.

And then…I grew up. It was inevitable. I wanted more, more than you knew how to offer, so I left.

I tried to replace you when I came to DC, but the versions of you I found here lacked your sweetness and charm. They were dirtier, rougher; sometimes, being with them scared me.  In my fear, I repeated my old patterns of betrayal–promising I would return the things I took, and failing to live up to that promise.  I failed, and failed, and failed, and finally I couldn’t take the failure and subsequent judgment any more; I severed all contact.  When I thought of you at all, it was to whisper a prayer to the universe that you would just forget my name.

I admit it: I replaced you with a handheld device. I’m not ashamed of that any more. The internet made it possible for me to get what I needed without ever negotiating the intricacies of a real relationship; cold hard cash said everything that had always eluded me, and never asked for any promises I couldn’t keep. I told myself it was enough, but the truth is the transactional nature of those relationships was wearing me down, forcing me to make cold, calculated choices instead of following my heart. That isn’t who I want to be. I missed the spontaneity I knew when we were together.

I thought I’d never find that kind of warm, easy exploration with anyone ever again, but then today Amazon announced that they are making Kindle titles available through you for the first time, and a wild hope flared inside me. Could you forgive me my past transgressions, like the copy of Everything in This Country Must by Colum McCann that I told you I lost? (How fitting that a story about heartbreak is what drove us apart.)

I approached you with my heart in my throat, and you let me in, DC Public Library. You’ve forgiven me everything I did wrong in the past, and I’m willing to start again, too, without my old notions of you as a dirty and chaotic player. You gave me Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children for free for 21 days, and I’ve given you, tentatively, my heart.  It feels like redemption. It feels like hope.  It feels like I’m going to be giving Amazon a lot less money for the ~150 novels I read each year, and that feels really good.