As the one year anniversary of my Grandma's passing creeps slowly closer, I've been drawn subconsciously to all things reminiscent of her. During the months after her passing, I found myself dialing her number on the way home from work to share a funny story or searching in a drawer for the perfect postcard to mail. Catching myself in these moments hurt deeply and I had to delete her phone number from my contacts using my laptop. It felt too intimate, too personal somehow to do this on the phone itself. While these moments have mercifully ceased, the other day, I found myself drawn to a section in the library that held all of the books my Grandma read with me as a little girl.
Libraries have always been my favorite places. They're always cozy, warm, welcoming, and quiet. You can't help but feel smarter when you walk into a library. There's just something inspiring about those huge wooden book cases packed neatly with rows and rows of books and the quiet calm voices people only use at the library, the smell of old musty paper and the sun shining into the room in big strips. Entering a library is like coming home after a long walk in the snow.