The Library
I smell them,
hear
them,
feel them!
The dust and knowledge-filled air coalesces around me,
Whispering of those who roamed this room.
I can’t breathe deeply enough to fill my lungs with the
centuries
of words, emotions, and ideas that
waft through the alcoves
and reverberate within my lungs.
I can feel the weight of the great minds of the ages
looking down at me from the
mezzanine balustrade –
Plato,
Homer, Columbus, Shakespeare, Beethoven, Michelangelo, Herodotus, Moses
They watch me as I ponder my worthiness to be here.
What a fraud I must seem as I try to impart knowledge onto
my students,
but
yet, I secretly know that I haven’t read all that I could or should.
I dream of being a scholar.
I dream of one day holding the wisdom of the ages entirely
within my mind –
a compendium of everything.
(Occasionally, the low rumble of
the book elevator echoes through the hall.)
The Muses of Knowledge stand as sentinels to the wisdom they
represent –
Poetry,
Philosophy, Art, History, Commerce, Religion, Science, Law
This is such an ornate place – a sanctuary, a haven, a
repository for those seeking…
Why are they here?
Two
young girls working on their school work
A
man in business attire shuffling through files
An
elderly Asian woman with a tower of papers
What is she
pondering?
Her
lips move as she contemplates her reading, shaking her head
while she shakily places her
one-armed spectacles aside –
It
takes two pairs of glasses at the same time to aid her aged eyes
in deciphering the text.
I think I see my mother –
silver-white hair pulled neatly
into a ponytail, a vest, a t-shirt,
a stack of books, carefully walking
through the rows of writing desks,
looking for the best place to sit
while gnawing at the inside of her lower lip.
I need to go, but I don’t want to. Can’t I just stay?
gold
marble walls, pillars, arches
walnut
half walls, the librarian’s desk placed central to all
Seeing this room on television, in the movies, or in
pictures doesn’t do it justice.
. . . neither does my pathetic
attempt at words.
I want to capture this moment in my mind forever –
just as I want to hold all of the
other memorable moments in my life.
I’m not talking about THE moments like the births of my
babies, or my wedding, or the temple.
I’m talking about those dream-filled moments stored away in a girl’s
heart,
the ones that whisper to me over
the years,
“I would love to . . .”
“Wouldn’t it be cool if . . .”
“I wish I could . . .”
“Someday, I’ll . . .”
And
then THAT moment happens and nothing that I’ve done is enough to forever freeze
it in my memory.
Nothing
can replace those moments when one of my heart’s yearnings is fulfilled.
-
standing in the hall where the Declaration of
Independence was signed
-
roaming the Sacred Grove and wondering exactly where
the boy Joseph saw the vision that changed the world
-
walking through Louisa May Alcott’s garret
-
crying as Donny Osmond began singing “Puppy Love” at a
concert full of 30-something women
-
finding the ponies of Assateague
-
having a little black cocker spaniel puppy make his way
into my lap and lick my face with his delicious puppy breath
I just realized that it’s only fitting that I “saw” my
mother here.
I call her from this place every time I come.
It is She who instilled within me a love of books, of
libraries, of words, of knowledge.
It is She I think of every time one of these “moments”
occur.
And it is She with whom I will share these feeble attempts
to annotate this experience.
Sadly, my time truly is at an end.
I will return, and I’ll return with a plan.
Who knows, maybe one day, I’ll return with my mother.
That would be another “moment!”
A few more deep breaths as I try to infuse my DNA with the
memory of this moment.
Station 191
It’s time to go.
~ by Barbara DenBoer
29
April 2014
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