Getting Rid of the Books

My wife bundles our grown kids’ sets in Saran Wrap—
A Wrinkle in Time, Eragon, Anne of Green Gables—
to keep each book with its family. She bunches
paper in box crevices, so odd-sized texts won’t slide,
pulp pages won’t fold under hardback weight. I stay
 
in the passenger seat when we reach GoodWill,
look ahead at matching suede sofas, two bedside lamps
by a dumpster for the unsalvageable.
The guy wheels out a blue canvas container
after we tell him the boxes in the back
packed tight like a Tetris mosaic
are full of books. Wait
 
my wife calls—and I see her
in the side mirror scramble
to help him as he opens each box,
lifts above his head and lets
the contents tumble and strike
at broken angles in a deep bin
meant for dirty laundry.
 
When my wife slides into                              
the driver’s seat, receipt
clutched in hand,
she is weeping. I want
 
to write about book banning, books
I can no longer teach, books pulled                                       
by administration mid-read, but
I’m a high school English teacher still
drawing a salary. Coward,
 
I will write a last will
and testament for my books.
Not a designation of who
gets what, but how
to gently pack them, how
to place them
 
into the hands of a girl,
her feet against the heat vent,
book propped open,
its spine resting on her lap.