You see, for most of my life, I lived near one specific library. Even when I bought my own house, it was still the closest library. Sure, I visited other branches, but this particular library felt different, it felt like home.
I remember as a child picking out my first chapter book — “B is for Betsy” by Carolyn Haywood — doing research for my sixth-grade debate team and writing papers.
In more recent years, I would wander through the shelves picking up whatever piqued my interest.
Recently, my old neighborhood library, a firehouse and a neighboring rec center were knocked down to make way for a new state-of-the-art library/recreation center. The new building will be big and beautiful with lots of light, but I can’t help but miss my old firehouse-turned-library.
This past year, I got married and moved away from the area where I grew up. Next door to my new home — a library. It, too, is fairly new, but on a smaller scale. It’s dark red brick with leaded glass and stained-glass windows have been beckoning to me for a long time. I wanted to go in, but kept putting it off.
Today, as I walked among the stacks of books, that old familiar feeling returned, and I was home.
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