I have often been told I am a good book.
I have never understood what that means.
Perhaps it is because my pages are dog-eared and soft,
from so many people turning them to read what they hold.
Perhaps it is because my binding is creased, and held together by tape,
from so many people opening me to enjoy the story within.
I show the signs of age, for I am an old book, and I show the signs of use, for I cannot remember a time when someone has not come up to me, at my home in the library, to take me down from the shelf and read me.
But I am still readable, even after the wear and tear, and the ceaseless handlings and continual page-turnings.
After all that, people still like reading me.
I am a good book.
People enjoy reading me and my story, and I show it, too.