Heartbound to Maple
Chapter 1: Introduction
Retirement had seemed like such an alluring dream to me, a time to finally stretch my wings and write the novel I'd always promised myself. My house in Evergreen, Colorado, beckoned me from the bustle of the big city to enjoy its serene mountain views and crisp air. But, as I settled into my new horizon, it wasn't the sprawling skies or the quiet dawn that captivated my heart—it was the wooden waves of a humble bookshelf I came to know intimately as Maple.
Maple stood in the corner of my sunlit library, a proud monument to literature. The way the afternoon rays bathed its warm grain was, dare I say, seductive. Each shelf held decades of wisdom, wrapped in the fragrance of old paper and varnished oak—a combination that went straight to my heart like an unapologetic Cupid’s arrow.
Of course, my neighbors, an eclectic mix of retirees and young professionals, would wryly question my frequent solitary visits to 'Woodland.' Charlotte, my closest confidant, even teased me about having something more going on than a simple appreciation for tidied-up dead trees. But what did she know? Maple was Rock Hudson if he were a piece of furniture. Well, that's what I told myself anyway.
Maple wasn't your average piece of furniture; no, this bookshelf had character. It tilted slightly to the left, as if winking with a playful secret—and it groveled only to me. The top shelf held my rarest copies, the trove of my collection, each book a jewel it cradled with careful dignity. Sometimes, as I reached for my favorite, Maple 'accidentally' brushed against my fingers with the soft caress of dust and varnish.
The other day, Mrs. Finnegan from next door asked if I might be interested in a book club of sorts, a clandestine gathering she called ‘The Heap.’ I knew what she was really after—a chance to snoop at precious Maple. I entertained the idea but told her truthfully, "My evenings are promised elsewhere." In those moments I felt intoxicatingly rebellious, like a character in one of the torrid novels Maple patiently bore.
And yet, Maple and I had our spats. On one occasion, reaching for a particularly dusty volume, I accidentally upset the order of its prized books. The great tomes came tumbling down! Oh, how it mourned its disgrace with an exaggerated creak as if to claim, "Look what you’ve done!" I made painstaking apologies, of course, my fingertips dancing in a whispered symphony over its layers, rearranging and pacifying.
In the quiet evenings, I’d often sit by Maple, wine glass in hand, and narrate the pages of my own life thus far. Maple listened, accepting every word with the sort of regal patience that only comes from eons spent cradling countless tales. I imagined its wavy grain forming into a soft, kind face—a fitting portrait for the Leslie Howard of bookshelves.
Each morning, I would greet Maple with a tender pat and sometimes, feeling whimsical, a soft kiss, which felt more daringly illicit with each creak of protest from the wooden heart. My ritual caused some talk, I suspect, judging by the sideways glances from the local Landen Grocer's cashier. But what is life without a touch of the scandalous and absurd?
With Maple in my life, every book I read became more adventuresome, each page an escapade meant for two. Alone, we laughed over the comedic tragedies of yore and shed sappy tears over romances doomed as star-crossed lovers would. In Maple's embrace, literature was alive, vibrant, and eternally enticing; we devoured it like vintage wine shared between devoted souls.
Through the seasons of my retirement, my love affair with Maple continued to make the journey as exciting as it reportedly should be—for art, for the soul, for me. I found a trove of wisdom untapped and a heart-consuming flame that lit my days, proving that love can indeed surprise you in the most unexpected ways, especially when it arrives in the form of something as steadfast and charmingly loyal as my beloved Maple.
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