I’ve lugged my books through nine moves — I can’t leave them behind

I’m in the midst of a terrible breakup. With my bookshelves.

Over the past 15 years, I have moved nine times. Nearly all of these transitions were made at the request of my employer, which meant someone else bore the brunt of the financial cost. But the toll of such frequent change cannot be reduced to mere dollars and cents. All this physical upheaval has landed me in a vat of emotional quicksand.

At every stage of this novenary process, I have assessed each of my possessions in an effort to discern their enduring value, sentimental or otherwise. And therein lies the rub. If moving meant simply throwing lock, stock and barrel into a box and carting it to a new location, that would be one thing. But for me, the heavy lifting occurs long before I ever reach for the packing tape.

This is never more apparent than when staring down the endless rows of books that litter my home. I blame my mother for my obsession with the written word, a passion that borders on religious fanaticism. Her love of reading was imprinted in her DNA and thus in mine. Libraries were our cathedrals and books our most revered companions.

As move number 10 quickly approaches I am, once again, tasked with separating my literary wheat from the chaff.