Weeping Willow

Chapter 16 - Willow

"There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in." — Leonard Cohen

Eight Years Ago

When I was two years old, I learned how to read. My parents, both Indian immigrants, were stunned when I pointed at a page and gleefully babbled a complete sentence. Neither of them spoke English as their first language so they looked at me in awe before rejoicing and calling every family member they could think of to tell them the good news. I still remember the smile in my father's eyes. They were filled with pride and hope for the future. Papa was a college dropout and he saw something in me at that moment, someone who could surpass all the limitations of his life through the power of education.

The very next day, Papa took me to the public library to get more books. As I entered the red brick building, I was immediately hit by the vastness of the space. It was like a never-ending labyrinth of bookshelves that stretched from one corner of the building to the other. There were high ceilings, which allowed the sunlight to come bustling through the windows and eliminated the need for too many tube lights. In the Kids section, giant teddy bears and stuffed animals sat next to pastel colored bookshelves. Papa would tell me later that I immediately gravitated to the Winnie the Pooh section. There was a large plush toy of the golden bear and Tigger situated right in front. I was drawn to the bright colors and I chose several books from the A.A. Milne series. 

When we got home that day, my love for books began to flicker like a candle being lit for the first time. The adventures of the honey-obsessed bear and his eccentric friends, Tigger, Piglet, and Mr. Rabbit, were like stepping into a time machine and traveling to a world where my imagination could run wild. As an only child, that group of characters became my first friends and I relished escaping into the pages with them. When I finished the series, I would move on to new adventures with classic characters like Curious George, Amelia Bedelia, and the sisterly duo of Ramona and Beezus.

Reading filled my summer and my visits to the library grew steadily. It was not long before one of the librarians introduced herself to me. She was a plump woman with curly, graying hair and a gap between her two front teeth. The old lady introduced herself to me and Papa as Ms. Kirby. When she noticed my appetite for reading, Ms. Kirby began to recommend books to me that she had enjoyed during her own childhood. I believe she had no children of her own so she kind of took me under her wing. 

When my speaking skills also grew with time, we would huddle at her desk and have hushed conversations after I finished her selections. I suppose Mrs. Kirby became my first friend in real life. I also viewed her as my magical "Fairy Bookmother," curating book picks that perfectly matched my interests and moods. When she gave me genres that I was not a fan of, I still became engrossed in her picks purely due to the osmosis of her enthusiasm.

That was many years ago. Now, I sat on my front porch and turned the page to a dystopian book called "Among the Hidden" by Margaret Haddix. It was almost ten o' clock in the night. When my eyes began to droop, I slid the same bookmark that Mrs. Kirby had given me years ago. In cursive writing, she had written, "Read, read, read, and you will succeed." The bookmark was frayed at the edges after all this time but I refused to throw it away until it disintegrated completely. 

Sinking deep into the rocking chair, I prepared to take a short nap before Papa came home. This rocking chair was also well-used. When I was little, I curled into my father's chest on Sunday mornings and read the newspaper with him. There was always one section that was dedicated solely to short stories submitted by readers. That was my favorite besides the comics. My father clipped this section for me while he read the Sports sections and dutifully held a cup of hot milk for me to drink in his free hand. I was a very slow sipper but Papa never once complained.