Blighted

The rain seeped into the crevice on my window while I was away at work. When I got home and finally sat on my bed I found that the edges of my books that I had positioned on the floor so lovingly and just so were soaked-- the seventh book of the Harry Potter series, which I purchased before everyone else but had never read, my guide to becoming French, which I acquired when I first fell in love with France, and my copy of Edith Wharton's autobiography, which the lady at the bookstore said was the only copy in the country.

The crevice on my window was small and hardly noticeable but the rain had been heavy and lingering.

I will not move my books. Perhaps the rain can learn how to be trusted to respect the smallness of the crevice and the books that were mostly sentimental and valuable that stubbornly nested on the floor.