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When I was six years old, (1965)
our small town library had a small 'childrens' section.
It was a big no-no for children to even wander over into the adult section.
I couldn't help it,
I would quietly brave the librarian's glare,
and just stare up at the mountain of books,
then I would gently run my hands across the backs of the books,
feeling the leather bindings,
some with fancy raised braille type letters.
The smell of the polished hardwood floors,
the books,
the dust cooking on top of the old radiators in January,
my cold wet wool scarf.
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