Worn

This week’s photo is a short stack of well loved board books. Some were gifted to us, some purchased used. Little Fur Family was the only book I ever bought new for Oliver, on our first day trip as a family of three.

In just two years, these books have witnessed countless story times and car rides. They have been handled constantly, and subjected to their fair share of teething.

I remember feeling annoyed when I first began noticing the signs of wear. Chewed corners. Bent pages. Missing flaps. Broken spines. At around six months old, Oliver put my favorite Little Fur Family book in his mouth after eating blueberries, staining the page edges blue. My first reaction was disappointment.

But that feeling soon shifted to one of fondness. The damage became like a marker in time, evidence of when he was chunky and teething and tasted everything. Now the stain has faded, and I wish it had stayed.

When I worked at the library, before becoming a mom, I saw the worn children’s books as the ones that would eventually need to be removed or replaced. Now I see them differently, I see years of small hands turning those pages. Favorite stories read again and again. The same is true of threadbare blankets and well loved stuffed animals.

There is something honest about how the things we love begin to show it. Photography has helped me notice this more clearly, the quiet beauty in imperfection. These books are no longer crisp and new, but they open easily, falling naturally on familiar pages. They carry their own story now, separate from the one printed inside.

People are like that too. Love shows up in smile lines and stretch marks, even in the shadows under our eyes from broken sleep. It is a gift to live long enough to see life leave its marks.

I have mended many of Oliver’s books with tape. In one, I replaced missing flaps with hand drawn versions of my own. He likes that book even more now. It reminds me of Kintsugi, the Japanese practice of repairing broken pottery with lacquer mixed with powdered gold. Instead of hiding the fracture, it is highlighted. The break becomes part of the history.

These books are worn. But they are still used, chosen, and loved. The wear has not lessened their value; if anything, it has deepened it.

And that feels worth keeping.