Leaves.

"The reason she can't drive is because she had her nose in a book every time we were in the car."
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In my younger years there never really was a sole current book; I started and stopped them with the wind.  My tote was a sampler platter of whatever difficult classic I was trying to impress myself with, a Magic Treehouse book, and some Nancy Drew that I felt obligated to carry because my mother or grandmother or somebody kept putting them on my shelves; I certainly didn't.  I brought all three just in case. 
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In school we would get a bright colored pamphlet full of the new children's releases.  Each month was different.  My blood rushed as the pamphlets were passed out, row by row.  Some books were only 99 cents.  Others were $4.99. Do I dare ask for a $7.99 book?  "There are worse things you could be asking for," mom said, as she glanced at the circled pages. 
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The public library had large stuffed bears, maybe six feet tall.  One of them wore glasses.  They were in the children's section, always watching.  For some reason, their mouths were half-open.  Half-open, and watching.  Watching me pile thin hardcovers into a cloth bag, crushing my library card like a piece of glass.
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I wanted to read The Hobbit but it was dad's book and I had to wash my hands before I read it and he made me sit downstairs where the TV was and it wasn't a very interesting book, anyway.
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I wanted my name to appear in every book.  These were the days of check-out cards and stamps.  I checked out books I would never even open, but books I knew the names of.
The sun shone through the window on A Tale of Two Cities.  It looked boring.  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.  I put it back on the shelf.
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Meghan wanted to see which Goosebumps books I had, so I brought my collection to fourth grade.  I had all of the Goosebumps books except for three. There are 62 Goosebumps books.  The entire class laughed.  Meghan's mouth hung open.
How did I leave the house with 59 Goosebumps books? 
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I had left my book outside.  I bawled.  The teacher took me by the hand, and we made a special trip, just her and I, to look for it.  The Prisoner of Azkaban.  Hard cover.  I cried.  I had been reading it at recess underneath the young maple tree.  I still had wood chips stuck to my thighs.  It was stolen. I had removed the dust jacket and left it at home, so it wouldn't rip.  I went home and stared at the dust jacket and felt the weight of eight year old misfortune.
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"Still reading," my grandmother said. 
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I went to the library and ran through the stacks, scanning for the largest most interesting volumes.  I grabbed Les Miserables, which for some reason was in our elementary school library.  I grabbed a fantasy I didn't know the name of with a picture of some flying thing on the front.  I grabbed a children's version of The Arabian Nights.  I carried that stack of three, stretching from my grass-covered knees to my freckled cheeks.  I plopped them down on the circulation desk and said (as Hermione once did), "Just a bit of light reading."  The librarian raised her eyebrows.
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I brought eight books with me on vacation.  Three books were a part of the same series, because I was in the middle of the first, so I knew I would start the second.  And what if the second was so good that I needed the third?  The other books were a mishmash of things I had never read but wanted to read, or things that I had read but might want to read again.  Three days in a car was a very long time.  I needed to bring them, just in case. 
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I'm in the library standing next to Carolyn.  "I want to read all the books in the library," she says.  I shiver.
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"I don't understand how you can read with the TV on," my dad says.  The TV was always on.
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"Holy frick, more books?" my roommate stares.
There were the books that I needed for class, and then the ones that corresponded to the classes I was taking, in case I want to reference one in a paper.  And then there were the candy books, the sweet and delicious ones, the ones I'd curl up with in my spare time.
I had only packed three boxes. 
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"How many can you check out at a time?" I ask.  "Well, as many as you want, technically," says the university librarian.  My eyes grow wide.  "Within reason," she says, raising her eyebrows. 
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My tote sits on the floor of my cubicle.  Inside, one book waits to be written about, one waits to be started, the other waits to be finished.  One is for class.  I glance at my bag.  I barely have an hour for lunch and will probably not touch any of them, but there they sit.    Just in case.