One of the greatest luxuries my mother provided was the certainty of books.

It was not weekly, as the name professed, but from time to time we could order paperback books from our only source of news at Washington Elementary, The Weekly Reader. My heart began its wait at the classroom door as soon as my #2 pencil checked off the box for the wanted read. Every question between then and its arrival began with “when.” Perhaps this would have been more annoying had my mother not shared the same love of books. 

She appeased the wait with weekend trips to the Alexandria Public Library. Even the toy aisle of Ben Franklin, which it sat right behind, just off of Broadway, was no match for the lure of the words housed in this magnificent building. There were no lions statued and guarding the front door, but for me, it was nothing shy of majestic. The only math I needed was within the Dewey Decimal system. Thumbing through the card catalog was like traveling the world. Each book a ticket, a ride, a souvenir. And within the wander, I forgot the wait. 

I gasped at the sight of the box on the teacher’s desk. She pulled the scissors out from her top drawer. Spread them wide, and gently opened the brown cardboard box of dreams. Taking care not to cut those on top. The flaps cracked and my heart raced. Part of me wanting my book to be on top. Part of me wishing this sensation to last to the bottom. Somewhere in between, she called my name, and without touching the ground, my bumper tennis shoes raced to the front of the room and pulled the book to my chest. It remained there, only pulled out to read in the comfort of my bed, next to my mother’s side. 

I only mention it, because I am currently in a moment of waiting. And I have to catch myself, remind myself, I already the tools. And so I build the panels. I paint the birds. I bake the cookies. Walk the paths. Read the books. Without lions, worry turns to wonder, turns to wander. Love pulls me along, pulls me in. And I am saved.