Yesterday at Fiction Beer Company a friend said, “I could never date anyone who doesn’t have books in their house.” I agree with the sentiment — one of my favorite pastimes is to glance over bookshelves at a party, and I even had a period in my life where built-in bookshelves factored into my rental decisions.

I no longer hold such a strong attachment to books. That attachment changed when I was broke and planning a move to Philadelphia. I sold hundreds of books to Kilgore’s on Colfax Ave. Selling them felt like a betrayal — these stories shaped much of my character and navigated me through my most difficult moments. I received cash for some, donated the rest, and grabbed back only a couple to take with me. I was consoled when the clerk said this was one of the best collections he’d seen. I’m still proud of how well-read I was in my early twenties.

These days I read less and most reading I do is on my Kindle/iPad using the Libby app. I have a couple dozen physical books but hundreds of books I’ve given to friends or donated. Only my absolute favorites are still with me.

I felt guilty looking at shelves of books that would never be read again. They lined up like headstones in a cemetery, marking the moments in time when I had read them, now left to rest in quiet obscurity.

Now I feel like the kindest thing I could do is let them go and find a new reader.