The Table Where The Book Gather

 There is a table that we gather around once a week.

Not for long, just a couple of hours carved out of our ordinary lives, but long enough for us to gather with our books and tell the stories they hold.

We bring book we have read

Books we abandoned 

and books we could not stop thinking about at 2 am.

We arrive with them, carrying stacks, tucked under our arms, and pass them around the table like they are offerings.

Our book club, doesnt look like a lot of bookclubs. There is  no assigned reading. No structured discussions. No pressure to have read any book at all. Instead, we gather together with whatever found us that week. A story someone loved enough to bring and say " You have to read this ". A book bought on a whim because the cover spoke to the holder. A half finished novel, dog eared and marked, waiting to be shared and understood.

We trade them, recommend them, maybe gently insist on them. Then sometimes, we leave with more than we brought with us.

It may not even be about finishing books, it's about finding them. Sharing them. Letting them pass through different hands and take on new meaning each time.

A small ritual.

A table full of stories.

A bit of magic that happens when readers gather together.

We come for the books, but we leave with new obsessions.