i recall the sudden quietness as i walked through the door. utter stillness, except for the occasional turn of a page or astep of a librarian, reigned. the lights always seemed a little softer. the temperature ws always right- a little cooler in the summer for that break from the stress of playing outside.

the childrens books were separated from the adults by a bookcase. the small tables covered with colorful books were so inviting. i loved the odor of a new book. the binding would creak as i opened it up. each page was stiff and perfect.

after reaching up to a new shelf to get it, i would take my treasure to a far away seat to enjoy it. curling up in the cushion, i would scrutinize each frame as i perused the pages. only thirty, i took my time.

my world was lost in the images of the print and paint. suddenly, my father would come back to get me. we would walk together to the adult section, books in hand. i would wander through the tall aisles wondering what they all said- too many big words fell down on me from the heights.

i remember the wooden statue standing on the pedestal. a woman with a blank face looked out at all those who entered. even though she couldn't see i knew she knew what all the books said.

my father would let me help carry the books out as we left. my skinny books would ride atop one of his novels as we walked to the car. oh, to be six again.