Library

I can't remember the last time I was there, or the last time I could even fit it into my schedule. But today, the siren song of the books became too strong, and I went.

The surrounding ground is torn up, naked and exposed to the harsh cold and frost, but inside is welcoming. I find a computer, type in the title, find a call number, and begin my search. Soon, the beat of my muffled footsteps find the right pattern, and I fall into step, swooning under the weight of literature in the air, enticing and caressing.
The shelves tower with knowledge, the upcoming expansion promises even more, and I feel small and playful. I love the feeling of finding the right book, how something that just minutes before was simply a number on a screen is now tangible, filled with words and stories and emotion, solid in your hands.
I turn, having planned on a short visit, when I come face to face with Joyce Carol Oates. My fingers itch, and I feel guilty for never having read her, even when she has an entire shelf to herself. I browse slowly, savoring each title, tilting, bending, to read them all. The colors, the fonts, the pictures, styles. The worn hardcovers with torn dust covers. This is all lost today, on kindles, online, in monotonous copies of black and white, on video games and I-pods. I pluck one out, and pull it to my chest.
My search continues, by author, by subject, as if I'm starving and feed only off of words, until my arms are full. I walk through the mystery aisle, shivering slightly at the surrounding horror, locked away on pages, leaving me safe, unless I dare to pull one out.

As I scan the titles into the checkout, a father walks in behind me, and smiles as his young sons point to pictures on the walls, gaudy educational posters. "Who's that?" A curious voice asks with a pointing finger. The father responds, "That, my son, is George Washington, the first president of our United States." I have to suppress an urge to turn around and hug him, hug them all, for suddenly, there's hope this isn't all lost. There's hope in books, in family, in learning, in teaching.

I return home, and settle on a familiar spot on the couch. The television remains off, for I am far away, lost in the magic of Oates, Maguire, and Wallop.