I cried in front of the stack of books. I was only six. I wasn’t sad, but overwhelmed by the choice. So much beauty. I couldn’t believe I was allowed inside this magnificent place. The Alexandria public library.

My first Saturday morning. I climbed the stairs. Opened the door. The fragrance was intoxicating. I thought it was the sweet smell of words. I loved the smell. I saw the believers open the books and place their faces inside. I did the same. Someone would tell me later that it was just the paper. No, that couldn’t be right. I asked the librarian. She could see what I wanted to believe. What I needed to believe. It is the words, she said, and smiled a secret agreement that has never left my heart.

My mother dropped me off at the bottom of those stairs every Saturday morning. My faith only grew stronger. I became joyfully entangled. Fingers tracked through the card catalog. Then tracing the spines along the shelves. Seeing it. Pulling the desired book out slowly. Cracking the spine. Breathing in the ticket to ride. Then taking the journey.

When they told me they were publishing my first book, the tears streamed down my face. I would be in those hands. Those believing hands. I would waft into the faces, the hearts, and the beauty of all that was overwhelming, the beauty of once again, being allowed in.