Worthy of a Stolen Book
Make your name mean something
I stole the book to protect it.
It sounds hyperbolic and Nick Cage’y circa National Treasure, but it’s the truth. My grandfather was deteriorating from dementia and I worried that my vulturous stepmother would abscond with the book, probably when she sent Pop’s widow to a nursing home. Or worse, she’d toss it to the dustheap as some worthless gimcrack1 from the other side of the family.
While visiting with my grandparents, I slyly slipped the book from that front left drawer. For my whole life, it rested there in the dining room china cabinet where everything for good was kept – the good linens, nice glasses, dishes for company. When wildfires hit Los Angeles in January, I played the mental game of What would I grab if we had mere minutes to evacuate? Passports, laptop, that book, and the dog were the first things that came to mind. Though, for the decades before I understood Italian and the book’s significance, it existed to me as only an opaque art object and family curiosity.
