Everything & Nothing

in the hush of the library

"Why? Mum, whyyy?" I whined in despair, for the hundredth time that day.

My mother Diane Dumont, a recently divorced, forty-two-year-old homemaker, sighed and looked up from rummaging through one of our many cartons spread throughout the house. "Really, Gen? Can you stop asking that pointless question and help unpack instead?"

To that, I promptly replied, "sorry, I'm still exhausted. I'll only end up causing trouble than helping."

"Of course," mum said, tucked a stray lock of her brunette hair behind her ear, continuing with her task of taking out decorative knick-knacks, framed pictures, and arranging them around the shelves, hanging them on the walls. Pausing once, she suggested, "why not take rest, then?"

"I think I'll do that..."

Laying upon my bed and staring at the ceiling above, I recalled my old life. I had everything going right for me; head-cheerleader at school, lots of great friends, a soul-sister of a best friend, my book club, and the community dance club where we were the star dancers. Dancing and reading—to lose myself in the rhythm of music, in the world of words—were my life. Not anymore, I guess, because I assumed the chances of finding a dance group here were very little, and the collection of books had gone to dad along with the house that we used to live in.

Idling around would only bring back memories, and with them, a painful nostalgia which I didn't want to feel. I wasn't sleepy or anything, just tired. And helping mum wasn't an option, I was sure this time I'd break out in an argument with her—something I wanted to avoid because I knew she was under a lot of pressure. Every option I came up with seemed like a no-no, except for one, to go out and explore my new domicile. I decided to do as such.

"I'm going out," I called to mum, grabbing my coat and scarf. "Be back in time for dinner."

"Okay." She didn't even look up from where she sat on a chair, preoccupied with the carton she was emptying.

The walk along roads lined with sequoias and Montezuma cypresses was rather relaxing; the air was refreshingly crisp and the sun, in contrast, washed me with its mellow warmth. I inhaled deeply, taking in the delicious aroma that wafted from the bakery I was just passing. The main square of the town drew closer with each step of mine; I just kept going onwards, without a clear goal in mind because I didn't know anyplace here, in which I'd like to spend some time. However, within another fifteen minutes of aimless meandering, I found an area which beckoned to me like a bright lamp does to moths—the town library. Hastening my pace towards it, I momentarily halted at the stairs leading into the brick and stone structure; it wasn't big, rather small, and antique—cozy and somehow welcoming. I strode up the four steps, pushed open the large egress, and tentatively crossed the threshold. The typical woody smell of books with its underlying mustiness washed over me, I closed my eyes reveling in the floaty-lightness the scent made me feel. The receptionist's counter to my right was unmanned, leading me to decide go and look around.

The faded green carpet muffled the sounds of my winter boots as I walked the aisles between wooden bookshelves, occasionally reaching up to run my fingertips along the spines of books. The comforting library quietness settled over my mind like a blanket, filling me with tranquility. I zig-zagged along the passageways until I came to the reading section, lined with vintage-looking tables and reading-lights. The place was empty, save for one person occupying the chair at the far end hugging the wall—a boy, bent over a book with his hoodie covering his head, so deeply engrossed in reading that he failed to notice me. I chose to ask him about the librarian since I wanted to borrow some reads and, if possible, become a card-carrying member or something.

Even after I'd gone close to him, he seemed oblivious to my presence—deaf to his surroundings, blind to everything except for the book that he had in front him; I discerned he was a voracious reader and immediately felt the need to strike up a friendship. Before I could say something to get his attention, someone behind me asked, "may I help you, miss?"