The single drawer—filled with a dodgy assortment of items, as all nightstand drawers should be—sticks sometimes. A curvy yellow lamp sits cheerfully atop it, flanked by a notebook and this gorgeous smelling lotion I always forget to use.
In the left hand corner, there are three books.
Book One is whatever I’m currently reading. It’s the one on top, the one I’m motoring through. Right now, that book is Quiet, by Susan Cain (seriously amazing). Book Two is the book I’m trying to get through, but have stalled out on. It rests on my nightstand, patiently, waiting to have its moment in the sun. Right now, Book Two is Half the Church (I know, I know. I promise I’ll get through it).
Book Three looks as tired as my nightstand. Cracked spine, dozens of dogeared pages, the odd smudge from an escaped fragment of chocolate.
Book Three is my bedtime book.
I’ve read every night before bed since I was a wee thing with thick lilac glasses and fuzzy permed hair. Back when I was just discovering the genius of Roald Dahl and July Blume. As a child, there was inexplainable magic in hunkering under warm covers with Matilda or Superfudge, while the rest of the house was hushed and still. It felt almost reverent. And a little rebellious.
I haven’t been able to shake the habit since.