ophelia, you must remember:

So I was doing the NYTimes Sunday crossword on the couch last night when I realized I needed a hard surface to write on.  I asked my mother to hand me something, since she was next to the little corner bookshelf.  She handed me this:

And I was like, hmm, what's that, and read the back cover.  Looked intriguing.  I was thinking, hey, I wouldn't mind reading a magical realism novella right around now.  I asked my mother where she got it.  She said she just pulled it off the shelf - it had to be one of my books.  Except I had never seen it before in my life.  And neither had she.  Neither of us knew where it could have come from.

Then my mother flipped to the inside front cover and scribbled on the top was J. Holechek, as in my AP Lit teacher from senior year of high school.  His was the class that I read Marquez's Chronicle of a Death Foretold in, but that was all - of course, he's also the teacher who introduced me to Cormac McCarthy, Camus, Henrik Ibsen, Stand and Deliver, The Mission, Billy Budd, and Zorba the Greek, so it's a class that I've owed a lot to over the years.  Senor Holechek has since retired, and presumably moved to Mexico, where his heart is.  But how the fuck do I have his book?  I certainly don't remember getting it. 

I have such weirdness with books.