Library of my Youth

Swinging open the stark white, yet worn double doors that lead into my grandmother’s library made me feel like a celebrity or politician, ready to veto bills or sign autographs for my imaginary fans. The comforting smell of old books welcomed me like an old friend, taking my hand, ready to whisk me away on an adventure. The large mahogany bookshelves towered over me, triple my size with rows of titles. I thought the beautifully worn, leather and cloth bound books contained the secrets of the universe, centuries of history, and treasure maps hidden in the pages waiting to be found. I would survey the shelves, looking for the fugitive book I had hidden one day so I could read it the next. I held my breath when removing the book from the shelf, convinced that one wrong movement would topple the books, ruining their perfect placement carefully puzzled together by my grandmother years before. Some days, I would simply plop down on the white carpet, too excited to walk a few paces to recline in the cozy “magic couch” as the family called it. A quilted blanket always rested, folded over the top of the couch, ready to bundle bodies, taking away cold and anxieties. If I was lucky, my reading was accompanied by the click-clack of keyboard keys, meaning my grandmother was researching our ancestors or writing her next book, to which I hoped I could make a cameo. I was inspired, happy, and full of childlike silliness in that library.

As the years go by, no longer can the laughs of children be heard or the sight of small hands grabbing books off of shelves be seen. Instead, my hands grab a phone, car keys, or doorknobs to houses that are not my grandmothers. I grew up. I was no longer enchanted by the soft crinkle and gentle swish of book pages. I was no longer entranced by the giant magnifying glass or the piano in the corner I had always wanted to learn to play. The ancient secrets of the top shelf books collected dust and my visits dwindled with the years. I hardly ever go back to that library, too ashamed to face the books and stories where my childhood bloomed, the same one I had left. However, the library is forgiving and welcomes me back every time I visit, the invisible hands of the books pulling me back to my youth.