Bookish

Sometimes I really miss my mum. It's rare, but it happens. Yesterday was one of those days. I found myself remembering her large collection of books, how the bookcase and shelves would cover the entire wall in the living room. She kept her most expensive books, the heavy coffee table ones with glossy pages and beautiful colour photos behind glass doors on the third highest shelf. On a Sunday afternoon she’d sit in her favourite armchair with a book in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. She’d have a relaxed, almost soft look on her face and it was like seeing her through someone else’s eyes. Maybe that’s who she was when we weren’t around? I remember her taking me and my sister to the library to get our own library cards and having a lively discussion with the librarian about children’s literature. We’d browse the shelves and carefully select three books each, nervously eyeing our mum whose voice seemed to fill up the entire room. Didn’t she know you’re supposed to whisper? I realise that being immersed in a book and teaching her English classes may have been the only times when mum was truly happy, and I wonder how she feels now that her job and passion has been taken away from her.

Life

With spring came the strength they needed, like snow melting only to reveal a hidden treasure. A misplaced glove, a long lost toy, a flower reaching for the sun, finding warmth in the coldest of places. It grew inside them, this strange unfamiliar feeling. So out of place in their small aching bodies. Banishing thoughts that screamed I am invisible, weak, so easily broken. I am unlovable, disgusting, not worthy of saving. They looked at each other, shyly, unsure at first. Scared to let go of this newfound feeling. Afraid that it would disappear too soon, run out, leave them cold and hungry like before. But all around them the world seemed to change, an explosion of sound, smell and colour, like an animal waking after slumber. They both knew that it was life returning.