Resting My Mind

On Military Road, there is a small, unassuming, red brick building. There are ten small windows that are practically impossible to see through due to the dim lighting inside. Leading up to the slightly receding front door are concrete steps that once may have had railings, but those have long been done away with. Right in front stands a faded, blue, rusting sign that always looks like it is about to fall over, half hidden by the large, sprawling magnolia tree.

The sign says Cherrydale Public Library.

If the outside of the building looks small, the inside makes it look even smaller. Four walls press in, but not in an entirely unpleasant way. The entire building is one room, plus two bathrooms, but the stacks covering the floor divide it into many separate worlds, waiting to be discovered.

The little old lady who seems to only ever exist in the chair behind the circulation “desk” smiles as I  walk in, the bell giving a merry, tinny, little jangle behind me. I  see her once a week or more, but I  don’t know her name, and she doesn’t know mine. Funny how that works. I  go about my business, and she goes about hers. Funny.

The books are haphazardly organized. The fantasy sits comfortably next to the historical fiction, biographies leaning up against science fiction. Classic literature resides peaceful with modern romance novels. The shelves are diverse and welcoming. All types of books stand side by side, and look perfectly happy and wonderful.

Normally, I  head straight to where I  want to go, but today I  am indecisive. I  like to wander, sometimes. I  lose myself in row upon row of endless books. Some appear recently read, others look like they haven’t been opened in twenty years. Every few steps I  pull a random one off the shelf and flip through it. It’s silly, but I  imagine if I  were a book, I  would be glad if someone read me once in a while. Just to feel appreciated.

Despite the emptiness of the library, it is brimming with life. People I  will probably never know poured their ideas, thoughts, hopes, dreams, fears, and stories in these books, and in doing so, give life to the creamy white pages and energize the black print. It feels like a secret, that only I  know, shared with me by the book in my hands. A little tidbit that is mine alone in that moment. A secret.

Only about half the time I  go to the library do I  actually get a book to read. When I  do, it is usually five or six, but today, I  don’t. I  walked over with the sole purpose of waking my legs and resting my mind by letting it wander into the oblivion of fictional universes. I  leave feeling satisfied and refreshed, but as the door whooshes shut, there is a bittersweet feeling of leaving something behind. Luckily for me, I  can turn around and go right back whenever I  want.

~ Natalie L.