Scene Of The Crime


I have returned to the scene of the crime.

My mother first brought me here when I was four. She had me reading then. By five I was joining in on the readers contests here. The VFW meets here now. It smells clean, sterile, Pine-sol permeates the air. It’s no longer a library. That has been moved to a newer, β€œbetter” building here in town. 

That new building doesn’t have the smell of paper, ink and binding glue. It doesn’t have decades of β€œshhhhh” embedded in its walls. The floor doesn’t creak as old wood floors do. It’s not a place I enjoy going to.

Now, they are allowed to talk in the library. They don’t have the reverence they should to enter a temple of knowledge in order to worship at it’s altar. 

I am a worshipper in a strange church and the librarians of old are preachers without pulpits.

I want it back.

This is an old post from my old blog but I can recycle that stuff because you probably haven’t seen it.

That’s it. That’s the post.


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