Imagine my shock when I numbered an estimated 1,650 people living in the house with Frank and me. Their presence does not bother me, or invade my solitary nature. In fact, they are a comfort, offering advice when I seek it, but remaining quiet and non-invasive otherwise. They help me relax and unwind, or stir up a bit of adventure when I feel like exploring beyond my own experiences. These people help me have a better understanding of those who live in conditions of all sorts and in all directions different from the conditions in which I live - and to know that I am not alone or unique in conditions that are the same. They bring me to outbursts of laughter and of tears, of shouts of "amen!" and to shouts of outrage. My attention to them anchors me in history and propels me to future thoughts.

I sometimes take our housemates for granted, the authors of those books on the shelves, but they have joined our household in a way that shapes our lives and influences us. Frank has taught me that as I have watched him grab just the right book off the shelf to affirm a cause or to validate a thought or to just be surprised with what is presented. What's written inside those books is the essence of the author, a sharing of something from deep within just as confidences might be shared between friends. It is as though there is life present in the books, life standing ready but dormant until opened.

Open up.