I have been wishing I still had all my books. It would be so comforting to have my walls packed with these old friends, to re-read whenever I wanted or just to run my fingertips over their spines the way you touch a lover. To add warmth to my home as well: They carried my past, my thoughts, and my dreams with them when they left here. But no. I sold a bunch in college for cash to go to the grocery store once, and donated the rest over the years whenever they threatened to overwhelm our small house. "You are not running a library out of your house," I was told -- but I should have been! (If only I could have afforded built-in bookshelves.... I would kill to have a proper library today.) I miss them all. It would have been an amazing collection by now, as I have always read like a fiend. I would have AA lit from the 60s; a sizeable chunk of brit lit, Russian, French, and American canon from my college days; award-winning titles; women/feminist and Native American writers; history/biography/ autobiography/ memoir; and of course mountains of psychology and psychiatry and pedagogy. Keep your books, y'all. Prioritize them. Make room for them. They will be the best of companions when you are old.