Lost in the shadows of a time past

I sit silent and forlorn on a dusty shelf in the basement. Long ago, I developed that dank, musty smell. Soon my thin delicate pages will meld together, a result of moldy adhesiveness.

I used to have a place of honor in this home. I sat proudly on an intricately carved cherry wood bookshelf in the living room, near the piano. Rarely a day went by that I was not opened and thumbed through. I was noticed when I was misplaced, and worried over when I once went missing and was ultimately found under Timmy’s bed. That was how much they needed me.

I miss being needed. I helped four Peterson children write essays, conduct research projects, and participate in science fairs. I felt their hands grow from pudgy kindergartners playing “school” with me as their favorite prop, to the strong broad hands of high schoolers digesting my pertinent knowledge.

I’ve heard the horror stories. My comrades have been sold at flea markets for $1.00. Many of us end up in model homes, solely for decorative effect. Apparently, leather bound books stacked sedately on end tables are currently the rage in home aesthetics. I guess it is better than where I am now. At least I’d have some purpose. The internet, with its instant overload of information has reduced me to a dusty research dinosaur, lost in the shadows of a time past.