Two weeks ago, I walked into the book room at a local Goodwill. Dusty rainbows lined the shelves. Passion, tears, laughter, souls bound in grainy pulp, splattered with inky words, donated away. Hardbacks were $1.99, Children’s and Paperbacks just .99 cents. Someone’s 90,000 words of their life, bleeding, discarded, put up for adoption. I lean sideways, eyes hungrily searching for friends. My kin, my soulmates, my muses. The fluorescent light flickers and hums, others come in and out of the cramped little room, I barely registering them in my peripheral vision. My cart slowly fills, a pair of blue jeans for my daughter and a set of floral serving spoons, disappearing under the mountain. Christopher Milne. Barbara Kingsolver. Pearl Buck. An illustrated version of The Odyssey. Hard back, board books, soft-velvety, well-bent paperbacks. Poetry, thrillers, romance, dictionaries, random spiritual tomes, bizarre self-help, and memoir swirl like a kaleidoscope in my eyes. You are not forgotten. Your raw finger tips, blood-shot eyes, and brain that never shuts up can’t ever be truly thrift-ed away. Immeasurable worth. Crouched on my knees, sweating in my wool coat, I keep scanning, keep loving, keep understanding. Your story, your truth, your lies, your beauty is seen, it was worth it. It isn’t forgotten, even buried in a charity shop. I haven’t forgotten your sacrifice for these precious words. Each a piece of a person, an author. The cashier is now scanning them one by one, stacking them in a box for me. My children and I flip through them as we drive away. Welcome home, dear authors, we prepared a place for you.