saturday morning...the sidewalk from
our house, to the library, is cracked and lifted by
the roots of ancient sycamore, oak, and maple trees.
"eyes up," my mother says, as I try to
finish the last few pages, of the last book,
I'd had stamped a week earlier
by Miss Bonnie, the libraian in the
children's section...my young heart's home...
I was now eight. And "eight" meant you could
take out twelve books at a time...on your own card...
I couldn't wait. I always ran out of books by
Saturday and had learned to pace myself so that
the final page lasted until we climbed the steps
in front of the big brick building in the town square
The air was warm with
the promise of late-spring-into-summer magic...
fireflies and lemonade, sleeping on the summer porch
and going barefoot in the tall grass...
Peonies burst like overweight duchesses after a
royal feast...pink silk and white satin in an endless layer
of petticoats....one upon the other...
But I could only think of one thing...twelve books...
twelves adventures
I would soon enter, savour, devour, and inhabit...
stories about horses, giants, fairies, mermaids,
princesses, knights, forests, and kings...
the scent of paper and the song of a date stamp...
manilla cards with lists of names...those who
have traveled the wizard's path before me...
Miss Bonnie congratulating me as I signed my
name in my best cursive, "you are now a library
patron..."
half a century later
I still am.....
No comments:
Post a Comment