Library
In between shelves of books
I am safe.
These do not change,
these old, solid, formative friends.
Their titles wrap around my in cushioning safety
promising I will not forget their stories,
their depth and wisdom.
Wheel on the School, Up a Road Slowly,
Robinson Crusoe and Johnny Tremain,
Brer Rabbit, Gone Away Lake,
Hans Brinker, Door in the Wall,
and Incident at Hawks Hill
They whisper in their time-scented, papery way;
"We do not change.
We will not forget you.
You grew on us,
We are tangible pieces of you
and your past.
You can re-read, remember
We are secure, on these shelves,
should you need us."
It doesn't matter who can see between the shelves. I have drawn time and grief around me and there is a "do not disturb" sign on my forehead, like on Cain's. It is safe to cry here. The books don't care, and don't regard me oddly.
How can I explain to the friend who comes to find me that I've read them all, that the answer to her question "why are you reading CHILDREN'S books" (as if there were some shame in it) that it is comforting to me right now?
How do I explain that my mother gave them to me to read the first time, and now, when I need her, these stand in as closest or next-best? These put me back where I read them, in the clean-sheet safety of my bed, during the sacred hour and a half we observed every day, as regularly as prayer.
These books are the pillars upon which my life rides: the chords supporting whatever melody I can claim I sing. Every measure of my life rests on one of these. Nothing else can give me so much comfort, because, as long as there are books on the shelves in front of my curled, floor-resting body, I cannot lose the past.
I am safe.
These do not change,
these old, solid, formative friends.
Their titles wrap around my in cushioning safety
promising I will not forget their stories,
their depth and wisdom.
Wheel on the School, Up a Road Slowly,
Robinson Crusoe and Johnny Tremain,
Brer Rabbit, Gone Away Lake,
Hans Brinker, Door in the Wall,
and Incident at Hawks Hill
They whisper in their time-scented, papery way;
"We do not change.
We will not forget you.
You grew on us,
We are tangible pieces of you
and your past.
You can re-read, remember
We are secure, on these shelves,
should you need us."
It doesn't matter who can see between the shelves. I have drawn time and grief around me and there is a "do not disturb" sign on my forehead, like on Cain's. It is safe to cry here. The books don't care, and don't regard me oddly.
How can I explain to the friend who comes to find me that I've read them all, that the answer to her question "why are you reading CHILDREN'S books" (as if there were some shame in it) that it is comforting to me right now?
How do I explain that my mother gave them to me to read the first time, and now, when I need her, these stand in as closest or next-best? These put me back where I read them, in the clean-sheet safety of my bed, during the sacred hour and a half we observed every day, as regularly as prayer.
These books are the pillars upon which my life rides: the chords supporting whatever melody I can claim I sing. Every measure of my life rests on one of these. Nothing else can give me so much comfort, because, as long as there are books on the shelves in front of my curled, floor-resting body, I cannot lose the past.