Scene Of The Crime

This is a recycled post from an older blog I had. I liked it so I’m sharing it again.


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.

Since I first wrote this, they’ve moved the library again. The structure pictured is up for sale. I can’t afford the price of the building, but if I could, I most definitely would.

That’s it. That’s the post.


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