I have two bookshelves. One is a large “Billy” bookshelf from Ikea that is both taller and wider than me. It is a plain pewter color and all the shelves are occupied. I acquired the other bookshelf from a tenant in the building when he moved out. It is a handsome, unpainted wood bookshelf that is tall and narrow. Most of the shelves are occupied.

To help assuage my own anxiety, I initiate projects early and work steadily. I do not like to rush, though I actually dislike the unpleasant emotions that accompany rushing more than the rushing itself. Hence, I have begun the process of determining how I shall release my books in preparation for my relocation.

I still have books that I used as a medical student, particularly texts that I read to study for my board exams. I literally haven’t opened some of these books in six years.

One of these books is Clinical Microbiology Made Ridiculously Simple. Medical students will know that the “Made Ridiculously Simple” series distills concepts of different aspects of medicine into mnemonics and goofy illustrations.

“I can’t get rid of this book,” I murmur to myself. “I studied microbiology in college. Bacteria are fascinating. I loved studying bacteria. This books reminds me of my discovery of the microscopic world.”

It remains wedged amongst a pharmacology text, a biochemistry book, and pathology volume.

Another book contains only recipes for cookies. Most of the cookies in there are a little too ornate for my tastes (either due to exotic ingredients or complicated preparation instructions). Furthermore, I obtain most of my recipes from the vault of the internet or from friends with exquisite baking touches.

“I can’t get rid of this book,” I murmur to myself. “A good friend from medical school gave me this book as a graduation gift due to my legendary fondness for cookies. Plus, there may come a time when I want to make ornate cookies for my friends. Sometimes, people just want a pretty cookie, even if it has coconut in it.”

It sits unused next to other cookbooks.

Then there are the few volumes of non-work, non-”how to” (e.g. how to juggle, how to perform magic tricks with coins, how to run properly) books I own—many of them were gifts. These books have provided hours of thoughtful, engaging entertainment and, sometimes, comfort.

“I can’t get rid of this Calvin and Hobbes collection,” I murmur to myself. “Calvin and Hobbes is a fantastic comic—this young boy and his stuffed tiger have reminded me of our human foibles… and, you know, inappropriate snowmen are hilarious.”

It remains stuffed amongst The Brothers Karamazov, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (hi Justin!), and American Psycho.

I could take all of these books with me to New York City, though this is not a practical option. I don’t own much as it is and am eager to shed many of my possessions. (I especially can’t wait to be rid of my car.)

I wish I could take all of my friends with me to New York City, though this is simply impossible. While I am deeply thankful that I can take my experiences from Seattle with me, I feel great sadness that I cannot bring along all the wonderful people who have created these experiences with me.

So, like these books, I shall enjoy my friends while I am still here. Parting with my friends will be more painful than parting with books, for certain, though I also know that, unlike the books, my friends will continue to be in my life even though I shall be 3,000 miles away. Books can’t call you up to say hello, fly out to visit you, or send letters to share news. People can.

Thankfully.