Books make dreams.
I can’t lay my head down on the table at breakfast and sob, “I miss you!” or I’ll upset them as they are heading out for their second day of grade school.
(I also can’t say, “I’ve done so much. Where’s the appreciation?” or, “Mama needs to nurture herself right now, and how’s she gonna do that?”)
We need a plumber for the sink, but I don’t even care. I’m done with all that.
I go out into the world, like an amoeba or an infant who needs swaddling.
I drive to the library, one of the safest places I know.
I talk with the librarian as if she is an old friend.
I wander the children’s stacks, among familiar titles.
I run my finger along the spines of the books.
I don’t have the heart to check any out, like we did over the summer.
I head toward the exit where daylight glares through the tall windows.
I feel as if I could throw myself in blue splotches up to the mezzanine.