Overbooked

My boy, the Polymath, and my girl, Sandra—writers that they are—married six months ago in a library. Tears, hugs, a botched kiss, laughter, a gangster hat, good wine, fantastic pesto, poetry from Vim Nadera, the word for the day from Neil Garcia (“vicissitudes,” and everybody had to use the word in his or her toast to the couple)—such a beautiful wedding.

With the union comes a merger of books: each one probably having about a thousand books each.

So they gave away books they have multiple copies of—good ones!—to the guests, with a special Paul & Sandra bookmark sandwiched in the pages. One book for every guest. But which to choose? There was Ondaatje, Calvino, Loorie Moore, David Foster Wallace, Hornby, Rushdie, Byatt, whew. You gotta make a decision, quick, because while the rest of the guests were lining up to get food, the writers were already circling the pile of books. As soon as it was considered, well, appropriate, we snatched the books we like. Paul gave me the blessing to get a lot, yeah, plus Paul and Sandra’s choice for me (Thomas Merton’s Seven Storey Mountain—which I still have to open, sorry, sweeties).

We, of course, knew that we hardly have the time to read our loot. “This is greed,” Butch Guerrero said, with his horde tucked safely away in a corner. We were shameless. (Now, six months later, I am merely midway into Midnight’s Children. Love it. Hate my schedule.)

For the godparents, Paul and Sandra gave a beautiful Parker pen.

Mine is engraved Ninang Janet.