The Library Was My Sanctuary

I learned to read when I was five and from that moment, I counted the days until I turned six and would be granted my very own library card.

When that great day came, my sister sat me down, printed my name and had me practice so I could sign my card.

“If you can’t sign your own name, they won’t let you have one,” she warned me.

On my first visit, I was allowed to take out one book, which I triumphantly did, promising the rest I would be back for them, once I’d passed this test of my trustworthiness. And I was back, the following Saturday and every Saturday after that until we moved to a new city where I was old enough and the neighbourhood safe enough that I could walk to our new library all on my own.

“Cross with the lights!” my mother would call as I bolted out the door at opening time.

“I will!” I promised and I did. Heavy traffic scared me. It still does, as so many things do and did.

I would plop myself down on the floor, reaching for book after book after book, only stopping when the pile was in danger of growing too big to carry home. “I’ll be back,” I’d whisper, hoisting this week’s treasures.

Every week, as I grew up, I would make the solitary trek to the library.

It became my Sunday Mass, my Saturday night drinks with friends. It was where I went as a celebration of good news and a solace against bad.

It was where I went on my first public outing after my sister died, feeling raw and skinless until I walked through the doors.

Every move to a new community meant a new library card and I didn’t even begin to call the new place home until I had it in my hands, along with whatever number of books I was allowed to take on my first checkout.

It sometimes took a while to accrue enough proof of residence pieces to be granted a card.

“What’s the point?” my husband asked once, “if you can’t take anything out?”

He knows not to question now.

For the last four years, I’ve been fighting back from Inflammatory Arthritis. I can no longer wander freely among the stacks. When I first got sick, even getting to the library was beyond me, though my husband offered to drive.

A new approach was needed. Thankfully, there’s the internet, with my library’s entire catalog listed there. I order my books online and my husband checks them out for me.

I was a bit worried the first time. Would they let him use my card? Would I get the books???

But they knew him, had seen us together, had seen me struggling.

Last week, I was feeling strong enough to have a wander through the stacks.

I can no longer plop myself down on the floor. In fact, I can only reach a book if it’s located roughly between my waist and shoulder height. So many unclaimed treasures, right there but out of reach!

Still, I had a decent stack of books, forgetting how a weight makes it even more difficult to walk. Progress to the desk was slow. The librarian smiled encouraging smiles as I inched my way toward her.

I put my books on the desk with a sigh of relief.

“It’s so good to see you in here,” she told me.

“It’s so good to be here,” I said.

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