They are the only ones ready to give me advice. I am the only one who goes to them. Twelve approachable books containing wise minds and relatable souls. Twelve who were cast aside by many. Twelve displaced minds sitting on a shelf. From the window, I can see them, but my mother refuses to talk to them.
      Their wisdom is special. They send confident advice through strong words. They talk loud and they talk soft, paying attention to the way they turn the pages and shushing the vexing background voices and never quit talking. This is how they teach.
      Let one know his reason for knowledge, they’d all sing like canaries on a sunny day, each with their own lyrics. Teach, teach, teach they do when I read. They talk.
      When I am too mad and too tired to keep talking, when I am an insignificant argument against the crowd, then it is I talking at books. When the words stop being happy. Twelve who taught despite judgement. Twelve who talked and did not forget to talk. Twelve whose only reason is to teach and teach.