We were taught that it was sacred, right from the start. “Children, be quiet,” she urged, as Mrs. Bergstrom walked us from our first grade classroom to the library. I don’t remember asking why. I guess I always assumed it was because the books had so much to say, we needed to listen.

With this opening of worlds, it became necessary from the start to mark our places. The librarian told us, pleaded with us, never to “dog ear” the page. Imagine, she explained, if every time you walked into your home, your mother grabbed you by the ear and folded it over and pulled you in to show you your place. We all agreed that would be terrible. I know some still did it. I can’t say who for sure, but I had my suspicions. And the proof was often there in a big crease going diagonally down the story. I didn’t do it. I still don’t. Not because I was so perfect. No, it was because just down the hall, in art class, it was Mr. Opsahl that taught us paper had a memory. When you folded it, it stayed. Everything we were being taught at Washington Elementary told us that these books, these pages with words, were alive. And it was here, that I found my place.

I still live there. Here. In the word. It’s where I find my truth. My hope. My joy. It’s here I can find company. Comfort. I can welcome you in, and with any luck, give you the same. Because I think that’s what they were always telling us, as we raced to make our mark — to listen, to be kind. We can do this. For each other. We’re all hear to tell a story.