The Brewster’s Ladies’ Library started
by two ladies 150 years ago
is still going strong. My mother
volunteers there, holds the record
for the most volunteer hours worked
during the year.
“I love this place,” she says
as we leave the book stacks and wander back
into the newspaper reading room
with its musty newspaper smell. An old man
in a heavy brown coat, slouched down
like a crumpled walrus in a big leather chair,
doesn’t even glance up from his newspaper
as we enter the room.
But I can see the slight smile
as he overhears my mother’s reverent voice
talking about the library, with its quiet corners
and sacred spaces. “I love this place,”
she says again as she takes
my arm, the color rising in her cheeks.
My dad would be proud of her I think,
taking such good care
of all these books.