Library

I was in the 5^th grade and I didn’t speak English; but I loved to learn and read and so I took all my reading and writing assignments very seriously.  The public library was next door.  The entrance was a small and dark wooden door and one would never guess it was a library but for the tiny sign.  It was three stories high, with a basement, ground and second floor.  The musty smell was always present, but I didn’t care.  I would check out books I couldn’t read and sit in the child-size tables and chairs in the basement for hours.  The first couple of times my mother came looking for me; but once she knew that’s all I was doing, she was fine with me spending my time there.  I didn’t speak the language, was shy, and didn’t have many friends.  The library became a very constant and private refuge for me. 

Once I had my children, we frequently visited the brand new public library often for story time, crafts and all the books their little minds could absorb.  I remember clearly when the library became my personal safe haven again.  I was going through a divorce and the most painful times where when the kids, toddlers still, would leave for weekend visits with their father.  It became an unchanging routine for me.  The bag got packed with their clothes, diapers, medicine, and a couple of toys and books so they wouldn’t get home sick.  We prayed at the door; for safety and for them to remember Mama was here waiting for them.  Sometimes they cried while I held back tears.  Then they were off and so was I; on my way to the library.