Friday, October 19, 2012

When I was young, I was just me.  I was more honest in my interactions and reactions with the world.  I remember wanting a library card so that I could choose my own books.  It was my goal.  I worked so hard at learning to write my name and address so that I could fill out the application.  No one stood over me.  No one pushed or pulled or prodded.  It was just me and the library and a piece of paper.  After many tries, I finally was able to write the information so that the librarian could read it.  I was proud - not that I filled out the paper - but that I could pick out books.  I still remember the light slanting in through the high windows of the library down onto the floor between the stacks.  I sat on the floor riffling through the shelf weighting the merits of this book versus that.  I count that as a shinny bright memory bead on the necklace of my life.  I was four.

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