Sitting on the cool basement floor, legs splayed on the blue linoleum squares, my knees hold the cover of a large colorful book. I lean against the boxy yellow bookcase that holds childrens books when I am not bent over examining a picture or outlining the shapes of words with my small fingers. Mom is doing laundry in the back room, the basement door opened to let in the breeze. Blossoms from the apple tree float down the concrete stairwell, itself the location of many games. The breeze smells sweet, the jalousy windows have been turned open letting in the air and the occasional noise of a passing car or people walking past the house or birds calling to each other. My thick ‘mink blonde’ hair is held back from my face with a barette. I wear pale cordouroys and a pink cardigan with pearl like buttons. Mom has tied the laces of my black and white oxfords securely so I don’t trip.
The oversized childrens books have been well used by the time I get to treasure them. There are crayon scribblings from older siblings, and many which I myself have added. We don’t think of this as desecrating a book, no, it is much more like being part of the book, part of the story that the books tell. They make their mark on us and we return the favor.
