the old library

By some coincidence on Tuesday I found myself near the library where my mother took me every summer when I was growing up. I was pulling round the corner and the familiar yellow and gray building emerged to greet me like an old friend. But I was soon sad to see that a chain link fence bordered it and the grass had grown into tall weeds. The lovely neighborhood library where I discovered Walt Whitman, Ernest Hemmingway and Louisa May Alcott was gone.

Of course, there is a nicer and more modern library near our house which I have yet to visit. I just really love the old haunt. It was on a busy corner so there was always the buzz of traffic, pedetrians and car horns; walking in, you felt like you were retreating into another world. And that old leathery book smell, you could sense it before you actually pushed open the front door. There were high windows and in the afternoon, the sun made slats of light across the floor that warmed your skin. I remember vividly that some of books I loved, especially Paul Zindel's, were stashed in tall red racks that creaked loudly when you turned them. I always expected an annoyed look or the classic "shush" but it never came.

What will become of the old library? I wonder if the books I read found their way to the new location, or if they ended up discarded because they were already so old and falling apart when I first touched them. I wonder if the building will be torn down or turned into some symbol of modern life, like the ubiquitous juice bar. I long for that old feeling of leaving the world behind and running into the enveloping arms of authors and books. That's not something a Jambajuice or Starbucks can give me.