Oops. I almost squashed you.

Please excuse me. I didn’t see you sitting beside me on the shelf. Only 7.7 ounces, you say? Bit on the chubby side for a greeting card, though, aren’t you? What? You aren’t a greeting card. You’re…?

Can you repeat that a little slower? You say that you are a wireless reading device.

My, oh my, oh my.

Well, Mr. Wireless, if I may call you that, I am most pleased to meet you. I should probably introduce myself as well. My name is A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I was written by Betty Smith in … let me check my copyright page. What do you know! Way back in 1942.

And, you, Mr. Wireless? If I may inquire, which book are you?

Excuse me? Would you repeat that, please?

WHAT? You say that you are not only one book, you are millions of books, and that one of them is my book … A Tree Grows in Brooklyn?

My, oh my, oh my.

Yes. I heard you. And I repeat, Most Impressive. You say you have a battery charge that lasts eight weeks? I, alas, have no battery at all. I am just ink on paper between two hard covers with rather a nice book jacket. See? It’s a street with a tree, and off in the background, the Brooklyn Bridge.

Indeed! No. You don’t have to repeat yourself. I heard quite well how versatile you are. You can download books in less than 60 seconds. You have over 500 public domain titles to choose from, you are capable of audio and video, and…what was that? A color soft display.

Ha! I guess that means none of your readers dribble ketchup on your pages when they take you to lunch. Speaking of which, who owned you first?

No. No. I mean the very first time that you were bought – when you were hot off the press. You know, that delicious start-of-a-journey feeling when you are crammed into the carton with all of your brothers and sisters on your way to the first bookstore where you will be sold.

Oh. You weren’t?

So sorry, because that was quite a thrilling adventure. And it has continued to be so for … how long has it been now? Almost sixty years! I remember them all vividly. Started off, of course, at Harper & Brothers, my publisher. Went from there to a huge distribution center. That’s the one thing I forget. Impersonal. Don’t remember its name. But from there, right to Mrs. Appleby’s Book Store on Cranberry Road.

There was no Mrs. Appleby. Had been once, but by the time I got there, the store was owned by her nephew. Sweet fellow. Shy. Bookish. Fortunately, he had a wife with enough sense to make the customers pay before they walked out with their books, or he would have given them away.

My first time out … I call it my maiden (ha!) voyage…I was sold to Roger Wales. Spelled like the country. He wrote an inscription on my title page. See? You can read it yourself: “To Aunt Ellen. You introduced me to Moby Dick, now I’ll introduce you to my favorite book, too. Much love, Roger.”

Ah, yes. Roger loved A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Not me, personally. His own copy. So did Aunt Ellen. Look here on page 268. This scene takes place at Francie’s school six months after her father dies. She sees a bouquet of roses on her desk with a note saying: “For Francie on graduation day. Love, Papa.” Aunt Sissy explains, “About a year ago he gave me that card all written out and two dollars. He said, ‘When Francie graduates, send her some flowers for me – in case I forget.’”

And see here, Mr. Wireless. See those tears? This one is from before and this one right after the scene where Aunt Sissy takes her niece to the girls’ bathroom, tells her to “Cry loud and hard,” and waits as Francie stands “…in the booth, clutching her roses and sobbing.’”

Anyway, Aunt Ellen kept me for forty years. She read me over and over. Each one of those tears was from a different reading. After she died, you’d think I would have gone back to Roger. But no.

Fact is, I was stolen. Uh huh. By Jenny McGee. She was Aunt Ellen’s aide. Helped her to get dressed in the morning, pay bills, write letters. Toward the end, when her eyes went bad, Aunt Ellen often asked Jenny to read aloud from me. Jenny did that, and dog-eared a whole lot of pages, too. Anyway, after Aunt Ellen died, Jenny took me home.

She had a boyfriend back then. A good man, Ned. He was a fireman. Loved to read. Used to take me to and from the firehouse on a bus. One night, a car ran a red light and hit the bus. In all of the hullabaloo, Ned left me on the seat. Never got me back. I stayed at Lost and Found in the bus terminal for two years. A lonesome time for me. That was where I got the rip in my book jacket.

Eventually Max Gottleib saved me. Bought me at an auction. Next thing you know, I’m on a shelf in his bookstore, and that’s where I stayed for five years. Pleasant years, all in all. Not much action, but I was on the same shelf with three of John Steinbeck’s novels, and I enjoyed the company.

Finally, George Steeley, a nice fellow, came along and bought me for his wife, Margaret. She was an actress, and she loved everything that Betty Smith wrote. Used to read me at least once every two years. If you put your nose up really close, you can smell her Shalimar perfume on the end papers. And see that little red mark? That’s from when she once kissed me.

But when she and George moved to Europe, they sold their library to the Baldwin Book Barn in Pennsylvania. Lovely store. Surrounded by beautiful lawns and trees. It’s where I am today. Advertised on the store’s Internet website. True. But, in fact, I am happily ensconced beside you on a shelf, waiting for the next person to fall in love with me and take me home.

What? What was that? Yes. Yes, Mr. Wireless. Your pride is entirely justifiable, I’m sure. Global coverage? Uh huh. Ergonomic design? Uh huh. Extended warranty? Uh huh. But why would one need a warranty to read a book? Oh. I see. Malfunction. Uh huh. Lost memory. Uh huh. No. No. I completely understand why you would rather not talk about that. Instead, you want to tell me about your built-in dictionary and adjustable text size.

My, oh my, oh my. Aren’t you the cat’s pajamas! So compact. So tidy. So utilitarian.

And to think! The next person who owns ME will probably drop me in a bubble bath, smear lipstick on one of my love scenes, splash my pages with more tears, and…

Just one more question, Mr. Wireless. One last thought, because I can’t help myself from wondering.

Have YOU ever been kissed?

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2025. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit: www.shellyreuben.com.