The Library: Old Voices Heard in an Unusual Way

I hadn’t been back for some time, so I was looking forward to finding a new read. Really I wasn’t expecting I’d be there today. I had made other plans, but the soggy rainstorm wasn’t cooperating. No place to be outside on a day like this. The remaining leaves splattered the sidewalk, winter would soon be visible as I hurried down the street juggling a cup of hot chocolate.

Underneath my umbrella heat enters the air. A sensational touch to see this was there. The idea of seeing it turning anew. A distortion in an otherwise rainy day view. I’d like to sit on top of that mini cloud coming out of my hot chocolate. It feels like it’s going to turn into a recognizable shape. Maybe a galloping horse or an upside down umbrella made for sunshine. I’ll laugh when you see me do that. Off into the wind. Galloping forward or gaining momentum on top of a spinning umbrella. Taking a sip of my hot chocolate I’m smiling now walking quickly into the library. The smell of books is the last ingredient added as the puddles of raindrops on my boots become saturated. Books contain perfumes I thought, drifts of energy emerge from their opened pages. I like that ending as I sat down in a cushy chair. I usually go right to the stacks of books, but today I didn’t. Taking off my rain jacket I just wanted to relax and settle in. It’s a nice room as I stare out the window noticing the streaks of raindrops on the surface. Libraries are quiet places, readers need to hear only the words they are reading I was taught. Having not opened a book yet, I was quite surprised to hear them; the resounding old voices. I sat there listening. They weren’t talking to each other and mostly it was difficult to discern who they were speaking with. Some words were missing and some were completely out of context. Some sounded like they were capitalized and others as a whisper trying to climb up a tree. A newborn tree I thought not ready to hold on to them yet. Libraries have so many books, so these voices must be from them. Old voices encased in pages yearning to be read. I was not their victim or choice, I was simply their audience. I was their ear and the more I heard them speak the more I understood why. I was there to witness their thoughts. Standing up I turned to them and replied, yes to perfumed lips painted red, yes to black stars in the sky gradually becoming light, yes to an avalanche of tears, wholly rivers into oceans and dry nights becoming day.