One day I’ll be telling my great-grandchildren that I once read books — printed on paper!
They’ll roll their eyes as I describe the unimaginable chore of hefting a hardback tome, the danger of paper cuts, the grief of knowing a tree gave its life for my selfish vice.
I’ll tell them about entire buildings filled with books, thousands upon thousands lining shelves, piled in corners, stuffed into dusty bins. It will seem a mausoleum to a man named Carnegie.
My great-grandchildren will have seen a real book before — in a museum perhaps, maybe a Bible that Presidents once held to take the oath of office. They’ll laugh at the absurdity at it all, an e-book reader after all is so much handier. If the elected official is Muslim, the device can instantly download a Quran.
And when I die my great-grandchildren will rummage through my attic, giggling at the sheer antiquity of the boxes of books kept and cherished over a lifetime.
The Velveteen Rabbit — with a fuzzy illustration worn smooth by small fingers. The Little Prince, dog-eared pages yellowed and crumbling. An entire set of World Book Encyclopedias, circa 1980.
What a waste, they’ll murmur. What a waste.
Susan Simpson, Education Writer