Fresh.

I was picking out an avocado when I saw her. Maybe eight or nine years old. Standing in the middle of the grocery aisle. Completely engrossed in her book. It was probably one of her first non-picture books. I remember that thrill. (It’s not lost on me that the name of the store is Fresh.)

I was so proud the day she, our librarian at Washington Elementary, introduced us to the grown-up books. All barriers were down. All worlds open. Books with spines and plots and nothing but words. Books that were entrusted to our care for seven full days. A responsibility I did not take lightly.

Even though library time was just after lunch, I did not put my chosen book into my locker, nor in my desk, but kept it nestled in my corduroy lap. I kept it open on the bus. Devouring each word. Only pulling it to my chest when the teenage boys threw balls or papers or sometimes fits.

Our driveway on VanDyke road was maybe only four car-lengths, but I read my way to the door. Then to the chair by the picture window. Lighting each words with the reverence it deserved.

Nothing has changed for me. Neither time nor country can diminish my love for books. I still let out an audible gasp when the newest release from a favorite author arrives in our local bookstore, or when gifted such a treasure by a friend. I saw that love in this little girl’s eyes as she bumped her way through the aisles to meet her father in the cash line. Never closing the book. Never averting her eyes, ripened with desire. She was one of us now, I thought, and smiled — smiled for her journey, mine, and the future.

The sun is coming through the windows now. Brightening the words I type. A daily responsibility that I never take lightly. My heart tumbles and bumps its way fresh onto the screen, and I smile, for this page ever open.