the public library

Prospect Park on a Saturday afternoon in July is a quick jog from the coffee shop that gives you CBD oil in your coffee and catty-corner to the Brooklyn Public Library. It’s always that way, but my mental map will always include the wispy breezes and small group cacophonies of a Saturday afternoon in July.

What’s your relationship with the library? What do you make of the rows of books, untended corners, and each person clacking at a public-use computer?

My mom and I used to joke that no one outside our family could survive the marathon event of the Johnston-Leggs at a bookstore, or worse—a library. My mom is a children’s librarian, and our rhythm of together, apart, together, apart in any location with books seems ingrained in my DNA. “What’d you find, anything good?” “I’m going to go look at nonfiction…” “Want me to hold anything of yours?” (A classic of my mom’s, even when her arms are stacked higher than mine.)

I notice the too-shiny linoleum floors, the type of shine that only accentuates the scuff marks and cracks that I didn’t know linoleum could have. I notice the Astaire biography on the shelf across from a book about the Russian Orthodox Church, the stark contrast between the types of shows they’re both putting on.

I pass by a poster on how to read the Bible in the original Hebrew; the headline reads “In the beginning” and I start humming a song from Vacation Bible School:

“In the beginnnnnning
Godcreatedtheheavensandtheearth”

(That’s the pacing, I promise. Does anyone know this song?)

My mind tells me go out there, live a visible life, Instagram yourself and drink more alcohol than you already do and fill all the moments with activity. My soul wants to be right in here among millions of words and people who also value them.

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